


A Garden Full of Wellington Boots

by DDebDee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Child Abuse, Death, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Era, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Magic, No Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Pre-Hogwarts, Reincarnation, Romance, Soulmates, The Chapters Are Named After Boots, The Deathly Hallows, The Golden Trio, The Golden Trio Era, probably, well sorta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-05-19 18:26:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 25,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14878943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DDebDee/pseuds/DDebDee
Summary: Death watched.Death always watched, for one reason or another. But in this moment, Death watched with a vague curiosity.Death watched its Hallows, young children at the moment, fall together.Death watched the Cloak in the garden, the Stone lost in thought, and the Wand driving through knolls to find something.Death watched what had been in continuation for millennia. The rebirth of the precious Hallows. The alignment of the stars.Death smiled.--A Golden Trio Reincarnation fic, one in which the author can't explain the reasoning for its creation.





	1. Sissinghurst

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for even clicking on this fanfiction! This is my first one on AO3, and the first one I've written in about 3 years. I'll update every 3 days. I started this in a bout of inspiration from a really weird dream, and I really just kept adding on to it. After literally writing a whole quarter of it I realized it is a bit... weird. If you haven't already noticed well, you'll see why. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

 They were caterpillars once, Harry Potter was sure of it.

 

 There was a garden, and a farm, and a sickly farmer who tended to his heirloom tomatoes more than himself, it seemed. It was often sunny, often windy, and was a wondrous place to be when everything was miles taller than you. Although, all these details had never mattered much when he was a caterpillar, especially when there was food more than a mile ahead of them. 

 

_ Them _ . Who  _ was _ them? Harry had these memories, yet for the life of him he couldn’t remember when this happened, since the only tomatoes he had ever known were the rotten ones Aunt Petunia sometimes passed under the door when he hadn’t eaten for days, and the only garden he had ever seen was the one he had to tend to along with all the other chores he had to do daily.

 

But Harry was sure there was a farm, and he had once been a caterpillar. So one morning when he was 5, he asked Aunt Petunia about it while cooking the bacon.

  That was the first time she had smacked him on the head with a frying pan, although Harry decided not to memorialize it.

 

  No matter the scathing comments, them calling him  _ freak _ in a higher frequency didn’t dissuade him from what he knew. And also, what he wasn’t so sure about.

 

 They might have been other people once. Aristocrats in an ancient Egypt type area, with scrolls, and jewels and Roman tyrants. The memories were hazy though, and some things that he didn’t quite understand flashed through his mind whenever he thought of  _ them _ in that time. He had a lot of time to dwell on it in the dark of his cupboard, but he still wasn’t sure if these memories were real or not. He sure wasn’t going to ask his aunt again about it, and the spiders that he all affectionately named Wilbur in his cupboard weren’t that much of conversationalist.

 

 So Harry waited for proof of his memories and dreams as he did everything else. He waited for his cousin, Dudley, be a bit nicer to him and lay back on the Harry Hunting. He waited for his workload in the house to not be as bad so his bruises could rest and he could read those books Dudley never read a bit more often. He waited for his teacher to forget he ever turned in that assignment that was done better than most in his grade level could apparently ever do so Uncle Vernon wouldn’t come home to shout at him and hit him instead of just tolerating his presence like years ago. Harry was good at waiting for things to get better, and he prided himself with that.

 

  Until a time came when he didn’t want to wait ever again. A time with shoving, cigar smells, a wet, scratching mattress, and  _ hands.  _ He decided to take action that day, thinking through the pain and the tears, so he never had to go through something like that again.

 

 So late in the night, a 6 year old Harry said farewell to the many Wilburs in his cupboard, opened the locked cupboard door with an expired credit card he had dug from the trash earlier that day, and made his way to the entrance of 4 Privet Drive which he remembered having to clean immaculately just the day before. The only pair of shoes he owned, old, blue Wellingtons that were two sizes too big, were on the doormat. 

 

_  A large hand on his shoulder. _

_ “Now strip, boy!”  _

_ Cigar smoke choking his lungs. _

**_“Keep yer boots on Harry.”_ **

 

 Harry ran out a door that opened without prompt, barefoot. He gruffly decided, with the pavement of the road scratching blisters into his feet, and bile rising up his throat, to never wear shoes again.  

 

  * \- 



 Somewhere far away, in a school of absurdities and gobstones, Severus Snape was  _ seething. _

 “What do you mean you lost him?” He wasn’t one to raise his voice, but at the memory of emerald green eyes burning their way into his soul…

 

 In front of him was Albus Dumbledore, sitting behind the desk of his office, normal twinkle in his blue eyes gone. Snape noted he seemed to have aged eons from the lemon drop loving fool he had seen just a day prior, a thought that could not lead him to be any less angry at the man. 

 

 “The blood wards around the Dursley house have been broken, and the boy was nowhere to be found on the premises, Severus,” Dumbledore said with solemnity. 

 

 “The Tr-” 

“Young Harry has not used magic since he had left Privet Drive. The Trace is useless,” Dumbledore interrupted. This only deepened Snape’s temper further.

 

“How do you expect to find the blasted brat then!” he shouted, hands coming down on the desk. The Potter spawn had probably gotten tired of being pampered by Petunia and her husband and wandered off to piss off some dark wizard. He doubtlessly had the same amount of self-preservation as his blundering father, and walked right into the Dark Lord on the street with nothing but a passing glance and an unclever comment--

 

 “Minerva and I are trying our best to find the child, Severus, and we have decided to re-activate the Order of the Phoenix until the boy is found. I had hoped to inform you of his disappearance so you could help in the search.” he paused, fingering his half-moon spectacles. “Being that you are my most trusted consultant, and the relationship you had had with Lily--”

 

“Don’t you dare use that against me as a source of entitlement to find the boy, old man! And even so, the Aurors could do a much better job if you would just inform them instead of going on a wild goose chase with your own wit and trusted  _ consultants _ ,” Snape sneered, never admitting to himself how right the old fool was about his motivations. 

 

 “Harry Potter’s disappearance cannot be common knowledge by tomorrow. Severus,” Dumbledore implored, “surely you know the extent this might have on the Wizarding World? Yes, I know you can and will call me a manipulative fool,” he sighed, seeing Snape’s expression darken.

  “We will inform the Aurors, and in turn the newspapers, if it is deemed necessary.”

  Snape didn’t speak for a long time. He wondered deeply if this man knew what he was doing, and if he had truly picked the correct side to fight for. He wondered if the boy looked like his father, and why had had even taken on this commitment 6 years prior. He wondered if Lily would be rolling in her grave right about now. 

 

 Snape snorted. 

 

“If that is all we will be discussing then, Professor Dumbledore, I would like to be allowed some rest before searching for the child,” he said, emerging from his chair, cloak billowing. He turned abruptly, not even waiting for a response. 

 

“Very well Severus.”

 

The door slammed.


	2. Chelsea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nephasus, you cannot go out into battle like that!” A warm hug tinged his skin with love.
> 
> “I would apologize, but I did it for you, my dear.” A grim smile and a gentle kiss.
> 
> “Did you real--”
> 
>  
> 
> Harry’s head hurt with memories that weren’t his, and sobbing he hadn’t know he done. But there was one thing he knew for sure.
> 
>  
> 
> He was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot the disclaimer last time, I do not own the Harry Potter Series or and of its characters, I wish I did, etc.  
> Also, I guess this is necessary. This story has, as seen in the last chapter, many themes and other things that might be considered triggers to some people. Please read/continue reading at your own risk.
> 
> Lastly, I think it's worth mentioning that the name of the person who popularized Wellington Boots was Arthur Wellesley (so close to Weasley!) , the Duke of Wellington. Coincidence? I think not!

 

  Harry found it. He took several buses with change he had found on the dirty pavement, ignoring dark alleys, odd people, and things with the musky smell of cigarettes. When walking down the streets of more populated areas, he was stared at odd for a couple of seconds, then briskly ignored. Every time his heart quickened a bit, and after walking a few paces once they turned away, Harry ran down the street as fast as his blister-filled feet would take him.

 

 But he found it.

 

  Harry wasn’t entirely sure what compass he was following, as all he had to lead him in the right direction was an odd feeling in his chest, and a movement pushing him forward to a place that felt _right._ And now, here he kneeled, tears blurring his vision, in an expanse of overgrown, unkempt tomatoes, wild flowers, and tall grasses. They waved in the wind and the sun, displaying a beautiful pattern through the grassy knolls. Harry could make out a washed out, leaning ranch house right on the next hill, up to its knees in crawling bushes.

 

 Visions crossed his mind of all the odd things that he had seen here before, in some other life. The world around him swirled in a green expanse of color, and the visions played out right in front of his eyes. He remembered the feeling of a broad sword in his left hand, the searing heat of the desert, and the gentle touches of people he had known before. He remembered the taste of sweet grass, the frigid winter months of close starvation, and the odd and empty feeling of metamorphosis. Harry remembered…

 

_“Nephasus, you cannot go out into battle like that!” A warm hug tinged his skin with love._

_“I would apologize, but I did it for you, my dear.” A grim smile and a gentle kiss._

_“Did you real--”_

 

 Harry’s head hurt with millions of years of memories that weren’t his, and sobbing he hadn’t know he done. But there was one thing he knew for sure.

 

 He was home.

  * -



    Hermione Granger was a girl of cold, concrete evidence, book knowledge, and hard work. She loved non-fiction books more than anything, and had a bit of a hatred for teeth and personal hygiene because her dentist parents’ obsessions. She never wondered much about the oddness and the _magic_ of the world, preferring straightforwardness and realistic views.

 

Thinking of of this, she wondered, annoyed at herself, why she was in the fantasy section of the local library. She rarely went into the 700’s section scourging for for books, and noted her parents most likely thought she had lost her mind, sitting in the comforters by the door as they usually did during her weekly library visits.

 

  Deep down, Hermione had thought she had lost her mind as well. After-all, she had these memories, _false_ memories really, of being…

 

 A guy.

 

 For awhile now, Hermione had brushed off the false memories, explaining away their vividness with them being forgotten lucid dreams or sorts, just small fanciful fairy tales she had allowed herself. She was 8 after all. But then she remembered facts from a time period that she had never read about, and a small tomato farm somewhere in the heart of Wales, a place which she had never been. She could almost feel the way cold metal jewelry felt against her head, and words of a dialect she knew for sure she had never read about.  

 

 So first, Hermione had used her logical skills and searched the non-fiction section.

 

  The smell of books always comforted her some, honestly. She had searched through titles with a contentment, fingering the spines with a newly leveled head. This was until she could not find anything that matched her issue. Keywords such as false memories, gender dysphoria, lucid dreaming, and insanity did not bring the results she was looking for. The only book she found that related to her issue was a dialect book, learning that the language which she knew word for word for some odd reason was the ancient Egyptian language Coptic. That fact put her into a bit of a state of panic.

 

 And now Hermione found herself in the fantasy section, desperately searching for answers for the visions that crossed through her head. She brushed her hand against the spines as she did before, but with more vigor and unease. Hermione’s eyes fell on a title and she paused. A tome in the bookcase stopped her breath in its tracks . A tome about reincarnation.

  * -



   Ronald Weasley wasn’t sure what day it was.

 

He never really was sure during the summer months when his parents didn’t tutor him. He’d usually lay around in the Burrow, either sleeping or out matching his brothers in chess. Yet this sensation was different, in some odd way. He had been having nightmares, falling into them really, of a man named Abraxas. Of war. Well, there was always war, really. He noted this cynic view that wasn’t really his with an odd sort of vividness. But this war had a desperateness to it. He saw Romans invading, burning homes with an awful type of ruthlessness.

 

 He saw a garden. Ron didn’t know if this was related.

 

  And then he saw other things, snapshots of events he'd never really seen happen, in the future or in the past, he wasn't sure.

 

 And this was why he didn’t know what day it was. Ron always woke up thinking he was not Ron.

 

 It was honestly an annoying sensation. He gasped and jumped out of bed, believing he was leading a battalion to the etches of another never-ending war and then after Fred, or George, he could never really tell, shouted at him that they were going to murder him within an inch of his life, he realized he was just a small boy, screaming in the middle of the night in the bedroom he shared with his brothers.  

 

 But tonight no one had shouted at him, and in turn had brought him back into his grasp of reality. He laid in bed, staring at the moonlight outside his window, not really sure what he was, and whether or not it was the early B.C’s, the late 1900’s, or somewhere in the middle. So he decided, not really knowing why, to tell his parents about it.

 

  “Can we go somewhere?” Ron queried the blurry eyed, bed headed Mr. and Mrs. Weasley after braving the rickety floorboards to enter their bedroom.This was truly not how he intended to start off the conversation, but he felt, somewhere in his chest, this was right. Both parents looked at their child in gradients of confusion, worry, and annoyance.

 

 “Why exactly?” Mr. Weasley questioned back, wondering if he had seen Ron act out like this during the day. He searched his thoughts as long and hard as he could while waiting for the child’s response, only finding that Ron had been a bit distant in the past week.

 

 Ron honestly hadn’t known he would get this far with his parents, gut feeling or otherwise.

 

“Uh… I need to… do something?” He said with a small, squeaky voice.

 

 Ron questioned his own motives for this too, a thing he couldn’t remember doing ever. Why he did something never felt important to him, it was always what _would happen_ if he did. Why would he ask his parents for guidance when it came to the odd nightmares and loss of purpose and self, when he could just barrel into his answer head-first?

 

 “You need to do something?” his mother questioned with a sort of disbelief. Why wouldn’t she? it was three am, and her 6th child was asking whether he could leave the house.

 

 “Er… Yes.” Ron answered.

 

There was an awkward amount of staring afterwards, but Ron braved through it and stood tall, waiting for a response.

 

 And with that, Arthur Weasley sighed and got up from his groaning bed, groaning equally as loud. He was getting a bit too old for this.

 

  * -



  Death watched.

 

 Death always watched, for one reason or another. But in this moment, Death watched with a vague curiosity.

 Death watched its Hallows, young children at the moment, fall together.

 Death watched the Cloak in the garden, the Stone lost in thought, and the Wand driving through knolls to find _something_.

 Death watched what had been in continuation for millennia.The rebirth of the precious Hallows. The alignment of the stars.

 

Death smiled.

 


	3. Pull-On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing Snape had gazed at before slamming the door was the cupboard under the stairs, unlocked, open, and turned back into a broom closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A whole chapter filled with one POV this time! Thank you for reading!

 

* * *

 

The Boy-Who-Lived had been missing for a year.

 

  _A whole bloody year_ , Snape thought with a barely sated anger. The Aurors had been notified within the first three months of the search, and still, even with the government backing more than enough tax-dollars into it,the hope of finding him was getting thinner and thinner, and the Wizarding World celebrated a somber anniversary for the missing ‘hero’.

 

 Snape lifted the newspaper print on his chamber’s desk, eyes gliding over the moving photographs with vigor. The only drivel newspapers printed this June was editorials and essays asking and poorly answering the question of where the now 7 year old boy could possibly be, along with their condolences, which were more or less an afterthought to the inane conspiracy theories.

 

 He read through them now, attempting to choke down his guilt of letting to boy out of his sight in the first place.

 

**_BOY-WHO-LIVED, OR BOY-WHO-DIED?_ **

 

**_MISSING: SAVIOR OF THE WIZARDING WORLD_ **

 

**_CHUDLEY CANNONS CAPTAIN BLAMES LOSS ON POTTER’S DISAPPEARANCE_ **

 

Yes, it was all obvious rubbish, and provided not even the bumper of amusement to his deteriorating psyche. If only Lily could see the world now…

 

 Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix had decided around month 6 to search muggle records for any mention of the boy, but with no avail. The last police report taken with his name mentioned was a missing notice, and before that, a noise complaint from the house opposite to 4 Privet Drive, the police recording noting that, _“..._ _LSCBs does not need to be notified in the case of Harry James Potter, a case of unruly behavior.”_

 

  Snape had apparated to Privet Drive after these findings, wanting to question what the police report meant in its odd phrasings. He was met to the door being slammed in his face.

 

  This was apparently the greeting the Dursley household gave to most individuals of the Order as well, and practically any person who had a cloak on. All except Albus Dumbledore.

 

 “And what did they say?” Snape had questioned without preamble as soon as Dumbledore apparated back into his office. This was the second time the Dursley’s had let Dumbledore into their home, the first being to ask if they knew where Potter had gone shortly after his disappearance. They provided no answer. The old man had a worried face on, one he had worn a bit more frequently in the latter months.

 

 “Severus, may I ask a favor of you?” Dumbledore had questioned with a tinge of worry, as if Snape were not already practically forced to abate his commands. Snape rose an eyebrow, then reiterated,

 

“What did they say?”

 

 When Dumbledore finally addressed Snape again that day, he could not have been angier. Snape couldn’t have cared less that the man had let Potter stay with muggles when he originally found out, it served the little brat right. He didn’t even bother with the fact that Potter stayed with the family of Petunia, the now woman he remembered to have a hatred of all things magical. That, he assessed, could’ve been a humbling experience for the child.

 

  What truly infuriated him, brought him to the dark place he had been in his childhood even, is that they forced the boy to sleep in a _cupboard._

 

Dumbledore had wanted him to use his gift of Legilimency to find out just how bad the golden boy had been treated in the Dursley household, and maybe get a clue to where the boy may be. Of course, as a spy he would have to hide his identity.

 

 Using a Polyjuice Potion and posing as the newest installment to the neighborhood, Snape barely had to coax himself into their home, their own flattery did it for him. After sneezing a tad at the well groomed flower garden in the front, Petunia Dursley had told him to sit tight on their new couch, that they had gotten from the new posh place just out of town, and oh, he should help himself to some refreshments, _some_ people are just entirely too rude to new people in the neighborhood--

 

   When he did sit down on the stiff couch and feign being stuffed to get out of eating the dry crackers, Snape had found that the house had three individuals currently living there: Vernon Dursley, who he assumed was out of the house as Petunia bragged from what he guessed was the kitchen about his new promotion, Dudley Dursley, a young, pig-like boy who ran down the stairs with several bangs a suspicious face, and of course Petunia.

 

 “Some other neighbor, Ms.Figg was it, she told me you had a nephew here?” He asked as soon as she returned from the kitchen. At the mention of Harry Potter, it was as if her entire frame was struck by lightning.

 

 “Did she now?” Petunia said, turning around with a tight face.

 

 “Is that him?” he questioned, pointing to Dudley near the stairs. It would be a fair assessment to an outsider, honestly. There were no pictures around the house of their nephew, not even in the background of photographs. Snape was at unease.

 

 “Oh no, not me! The freak ran away!”

“Dudley!” Petunia’s face took on the image of a ripe and bursting tomato. Snape’s would have, if he didn’t stop himself.

 

“Yes well,” the housewife said, directing her child back over to the stairs, “Duddkins and Harry never had the best relationship. We were devastated when he disappeared, but saw it coming perhaps.” She sat on the loveseat across from Snape after making sure _Duddkins_ had successfully gone off, and continued in a half-whisper. “His parents, my sister and the husband, were drunkards, died barely able to raise the child. No matter how hard we tried, he ended up on the same track!”

 

 Snape was not one for violence, but when the woman had lied, without a flinch or micro-expression, that Lily Potter was a _drunkard_ , he wished to beat Petunia to a pulp.

 

 Regretfully, he had a job to do.

 

He gazed into her eyes with feigned interest in the lies she spun.

 

“Really?” He said, hoping it didn’t sound too sarcastic.   

 

 She had nodded, looking into his eyes, and with that, Snape had cast a wandless _legilimens,_ entering her mind without any force.

 

 **_“What did you say?_ ** _”_

_“I just--”_

**_“What did you just say!”_ **

_A frying pan, fresh off the fire, came down on the young boy’s head._

 

_“Boy! What did I tell you!”_

_He grabbed Harry by the collar of his dirty, oversized shirt._

_“Sorry Uncle Verno--”_

_A hard slap to his left cheek broke off the child’s speech. He was left on the ground._

**_“Vernon!”_ ** _Petunia moved to stand next to her husband._

 **_“Don’t leave face marks, they’ll notice,”_ ** _she whispered._

 

_“You can’t see?”_

_A teacher turned to face Harry._

_“The bleach…” the boy whimpered._

_Petunia dug her nails into his shoulder._

**_“The boy got into an accident when he was young, poor lad, we were just taking him to the eye doctor to get a new pair of glasses!”_ **

**_“Oh god, stop your fucking crying!”_ **

_She dropped the child into the broom closet below the stairs, locking it to muffle the wails._

 

**_“What do you mean, endorsement?”_ **

_Harry stood away from them, mopping the floors._

_“Well, the man said if we left the freak with him for a couple of hours--”_

 

Snape could not take any more. He felt sickened, more so than he had been in years. And _fuming._ Interrupting the drivel that fell from the wenches mouth, he stood abruptly.

 

 “I completely forgot! I left something in the oven!”

 

 Snape had turned to the door, gritting his teeth, attempting not to punch the woman straight in her face and cast an _incendio_ on the house. He could not even attempt to address the woman again, opening the door with such a vigor he was surprised it wasn’t ripped off its hinges. Whatever Ms.Dursley had uttered last was drowned out by the roaring in his ears.

 

 The last thing Snape had gazed at before slamming the door was the cupboard under the stairs, unlocked, open, and turned back into a broom closet.

 

 He hummed, to get his mind off the incriminating thoughts of that day. To get the _guilt_ out of his mind. Snape’s chambers felt colder, somehow.

 

 If Dumbledore wasn’t desperate before the news that had put Snape’s entire point of view on turmoil, he was afterwards. The Order was designated muggle areas to search, along with the ones they had already been searching. Snape was told to go to places ex-Death Eaters frequented to find the boy, including their homes. The Aurors weren’t informed of the child abuse Potter had gone through in the Dursley Household, as the public release for that would probably lead to riots and the actual _Incendio_ of 4 Privet Drive, maybe the Ministry Of Magic even. Snape wouldn’t mind if that happened, in all honesty, but the Order voted against it.

 

 What they had been planning on doing though, was reporting the abuse to the muggle police. This was undecided, mostly because wizards had no knowledge or practice in meddling with muggle affairs, and the evidence needed was all solely based on Harry Potter being present. Which he wasn’t.

 

If it provided any relief, Snape now knew what the police report meant. The Local Safeguarding Children’s Board, or LSCB, is branch of muggle police that deals with _child abuse_ . Apparently, the Dursley’s sprouted enough lies about Potter to get them off their track, and think a 6 year old as a delinquent _._

 

Snape needed a bottle of fire whiskey, and a new potion to brew. The newspapers didn’t help choke down anything.


	4. Garden Stripe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Half of a missing puzzle piece. Them.

 

It just occurred to Harry that he didn’t know what day his birthday was.

 

 A long time ago, in that glorious other life that he thought about while picking the weeds around the tomatoes, Harry remembered birthday festivities, cake and gifts, pretty cloths and new jewelry. While in the Dursley’ house, he saw Dudley gets these things and more, if not a bit less dated. He saw the boy get red-faced and snotty at not getting more gifts than last year, or the gifts weren’t half as good, or the one gift he had really wanted, seen yesterday on the telly, was not in the stack. Harry learned to not be in view of his aunt and uncle in those days, they were always in some kind of mood.

 

  He didn’t expect the same kind of treatment, of course. He hardly thought of it before, there were too many chores to be done, too little scraps to scrounged, too much pain in his joints and bruises to look forward to anything. It was the same with his name, too. The thought of having one like Vernon or Dudley did did not cross his mind until the first day of school.

 

_“Potter, ‘Arry?”_

 

 The primary teacher had been calling attendance, looking over her list to the class after several seconds of quiet. After what appeared to be a very long time, she moved on. At the end, the only hand that had not raised was Harry’s. He had been confused, wondering if he should just pick a name from the list she called out. _Freak_ or _Boy_ was all he had ever been addressed by.

 

The woman walked up to him, going around the tables, large smile on her face.

_“Are you ‘Arry James Potter?”_

 

After the odd answer of “I guess?”, the woman had put a name tag on his desk, along with everyone else's. When he touched the laminated name taped to the table, he stared for a long while, then felt a tinge of contentment.

 

 In the same way, Harry decided today should be his birthday.

 

 It was a very beautiful day, with the tall grasses bursting with new seeds, and the colorful wildflowers in bloom. Barely a cloud was in the sky, yet it was still perfect temperature, with the wind caring an amazing fragrance. Carpenter bees buzzed from afar off, Butterflies fluttered onto the grass itching at his toes, and bugs crawled on the vast dirt plane.

 

  Harry _felt_ taller, although he knew he was horribly short for his age, and he _felt_ wiser, although the only books he had read in a long while was the gardening manuals and almanacs he found in the ranch house sitting room.

  

 He didn’t know how long he had been at the tomato farm, though. It had gotten cold and heated up again, like it usually did in the winter months. Must have been awhile, he guessed. When he had originally braved the tall grasses of the clearing and walked into the farmhouse, tears blurring his eyes, he was star-struck. The last time he had been on the land, he had never actually been inside the building.

 

 It was a sizable place for a boy all by himself,  two rooms separated by a broken door. The paint on the wood it was made with was chipping off, peeling away with barely a touch of Harry’s hand. One room had a generator, a kitchen, and small sitting area next to the open door.

 

 The kitchen just about gave Harry a heart attack when he walked into it. The faucet burst with water, the generator turned over, and the oven made a screeching beep noise. He ran into the other room, hiding behind the broken door.

 

 After catching his breath, he looked around at the place he had ran into. It was a bedroom, completely covered with dust. The old man that had lived here before was nowhere in sight. Harry had just spent the rest of his day behind the door, in awe and in grief at the space.

 

When he had woke up the next morning, neck stiff, He realized he hadn’t eaten in days. Harry ran outside to the cloudy environment, not minding the splinters that dug into his feet. Visions passed his mind again, like before.

 

_An old man kneeled over ripening tomatoes, smiling at the vegetation. The rain was pounding hard. He did not seem to mind._

 

Harry made sure not to step on any insects, making his way to the now feral patches of tomatoes growing afar in the fields. There was such an array of them, in many different colors, and Harry was afraid he might cut one's life short on accident.

 

 The tomato plants almost grew above his head, showing off fruit that was several gradients of red, from a reddish orange color, which was Harry’s favorite, to the ruby red of the larger ones. There were very rare small, green ones, but he paid no mind to them. Harry clawed at the fruit with vigor and took a large bite.

 

After picking as many as he could place on his oversized shirt and going back to the house, Harry checked the cabinets, finding salt, pepper, and old butter. He cleaned dust and cobwebs with an equally dusty broom he had found, and made the place as livable as possible.

 

  He soon lived there for awhile, and realized he couldn’t live off tomatoes and tap water, especially when they were growing scarce. Harry was a bit afraid of what would happen when he _did_ eventually run out. He wasn’t sure what to do about this fact though, and continued on.  

 

 Right now, he lay in the front of the house, making the most of his birthday festivities. He ate one more tomato than usual, never growing sick of the tangy, tart flavor and the fire-like color. He had run in the grass and up and down the hills for a long while, coming across the sheep he was afraid of a couple paces down the second one. He wished to face his fear, but every time, like this time, he found himself petrified, and suddenly appeared back next to the house with a loud _crack_. It was odd, but he never put much stock into it, as he was too busy hugging the side of the house.

 

 Harry recorded his height on the wall next to the stove with old charcoal, which he saw Aunt Petunia do for Dudley before he left. A long while ago Harry had found pans, plates, and pots. He kept them immaculate with tap water in spite of himself, remembering the days in his Aunt’s house. He decided to cut a tomato and cook it with salt and pepper, guessing using another one wouldn’t hurt. Eating at the sitting table next to the bedroom, which he usually never did, Harry found this was now his favorite way to eat tomatoes.

 

 The sun was setting outside now, fading into dark blue and velvety purple. Fireflies were popping up slowly, blinking in and out with vibrant yellow light. Eyes drooping and lying in the dewey grass, Harry thought, a bit outlandishly, if someone would give him a gift.

 

“Hey!”

   Harry woke up with a start. He hadn’t heard another person’s voice in ages. It made his heart pound.

 

   He turned to the direction of the sound, getting up from the dirt and gasping a bit. Wiping off his crooked grasses of the dirt, Harry saw a dark figure in the tall grass smallish in height. 

 

  “Hey…?” He said back, voice a bit hoarse. The fireflies were low the ground, shining light mismatched-like on the setting. It took a bit of tip-toeing before Harry could finally see the figure in the dim-light, and when he did, he was star-struck once more.

 

_“Abraxas!” Laughing, vibrant and pure. “Come back here!”_

_“Who are we, really?” the woman spoke in a somber tone._

_“I don’t know Nephasus, who are you?” The man smiled, lines creasing at the sides of his mouth._

_“I’m hungry.”_

_A laugh, a gentle kiss._

 

_“Khnurn, I love you.”_

_“I thought you loved Abraxas?”_

_“Don’t you love Abraxas?”_

_“Yes, but--”_

_“Then I love you too.”_

 

_War, burning red in color, blood splattered banners. She fought by both their sides, sword in hand, scabbard broken. An arrow, blood crimson, shot through Abraxas’ head._

_“NO!”_

_Nephasus had never seen his eyes so dull, his blond hair so red..._

“So red…” Neph- _Harry_ whispered. His hair this time was red, curly, and had a waxy appearance in the moonlight. Freckles dawned his face, pale, like the stars that shined above. But what he saw the most, glittering in the light, was his almost icy colored, yet warm blue eyes. His eyes were the same.

 

  Harry felt tears trail themselves down his cheeks as he stared. Then, as always, the other put things in motion.

 

“Nephasus!” Harry heard the crunch of grass and felt the arms tightly wrap around his body before he even registered it. He stared straight ahead, feeling as if he were to burst into bits. A feeling, he wasn’t sure if it was his body reacting or something _magical_ , electrified his entirety. Whatever birthday gift he could have wanted, this was the best one anyone could provide.

Half of a missing puzzle piece _. Them._

 

 “Ron, Ron! Where are you?”

 

A man stepped into the clearing they had made, confused and out of breath. Abraxas, or _Ron?_ let go of Harry in a quick manner, staring up at the man.

 

“Wha-- who’s your friend?” He walked closer to the pair, rubbing his eyes. Staring straight at the top of Harry’s face.

 

“Wait… Bloody hell! Is that Harry Potter!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly cannot thank you guys enough for your feedback on this fic. I'm sorry the chapters are so short, if anything! Any questions, suggestions? Comments or Kudos are welcome!


	5. Adjustable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling. She felt it. She knew where the proof was. And besides all logical signs pointing in the opposing direction, she would go to it.

Now a certain girl was sick.

 

  Hermione, that is.

 

  Her parents were a bit over protective about this sort of thing, and forced her to bed at 5, even though it was still summer and her bedtime was usually 8:30. She lay grumpily in bed, sniffing every now and then either about the unfairness of it all, or maybe the snot that was threatening to run down her nose.  

 

 After days of searching for answers, absurd theories, and odd dreams, Hermione decided-- well no, not decided-- was _sure_ that in no absolute way the idea of her being reincarnated or some other nonsense was true. The book, when she had first read it, was like poetry mixed in with rubbish, in the way that some happenings in the novel were a bit _too_ relatable, and others purely ridiculous .

 

  Hermione chose to believe none of it.

 

  She had obviously just had insomnia induced nightmares, even though she had never had insomnia and the rose-tinted dreams that plagued her were not nightmares. Or, she thought as she clawed and rubbed the bedsheets, she had an overactive imagination, a thought which contradicted with the fact that everyone she had befriended admitted she was a stick-in-the-mud, as straightforward as can be. Well then, maybe she has a rare cancer that emulated language and false memories or even early onset _schizophrenia--_

 

Hermione sneezed.

 

 Her head hurt, not only from the cold, but everything else. If only she had some tangible proof for what was in her head, it wouldn’t bother her so much as to be driven to the point of desperation. This type of frustration was getting to be too much, she was 8 and ⅗ ‘s afterall.

 

 Hermione sighed, and laid back in bed.

 

“Proof...”  she muttered, before falling asleep on top of the duvet.

 

Then awoken with a shocking tingling feeling, burning all the way down to her toes. Hermione gasped, knocking away bed sheets in the pitch black darkness of her room. Hours had obviously passed, but she was in such a panic that she ran misshappenly through the darkness, heart pounding frantically within her chest.

 

“Mummy!” she shouted. Yes it was juvenile, but at the moment, Hermione couldn’t have cared less.

 

The couple woke up with a start, seeing the outline of their child. As they always did when she called, they ran to her, seeing the scared child, back against the wall, appearing like a deer in headlights in the moonlight.

 

 And as always, they hugged her within a inch of her life.

 

“Wha’s ‘rong!” Mr. Granger almost shouted, words slurred with sleep.“Has ‘ur fever risen?” He put his hands on her shoulder, checking over her face as much as he could do in the darkness.

 

“Are you hurt?” Ms.Granger said, a little bit more put together than her spouse, and turned on the light right next to there door, where Hermione shook. Tears and snot rolled down her face, and Mr.Granger hugged her a second time.

 

“I felt something…” she whispered. Both her parent’s gaze sat steadily on her, worried, with frown lines building up.

 

  It was then Hermione realized something. She stopped leaning against the wall.

 

 “It was just a nightmare,” she said, a bit louder than before. Her voice still came out small.

 

“Oh,” Mr. Granger sighed, “a nightmare.”

 

The Grangers did not push their daughter to talk about what it was about, or how she felt. They hugged and comforted her on the floor of their room, emotionally exhausted themselves. She soaked in the care, and cuddled just as tightly, attempting equally to comfort her mom and dad for what she had done. Hermione felt tears burn in her eyes at the thought of lying to them, but she knew this was the only option if she were to succeed in finding it. _Proof._

 

After the sent her back to bed an hour later, with two kisses on the forehead and a glass of water, Hermione laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling. She felt it. She knew where the proof was. And besides all logical signs pointing in the opposing direction, she would go to it.

  * -



 

 It had been an odd night for Ron and Harry, if they could say so themselves.

 

 Harry, in that moment of standing beside Abr- _Ron_ and holding his hand tightly, compared counting the stars to counting his blessings on that very early morning where everything seemed to go _right._ Stars, like blessings, were bright and shining and beautiful after a long day, and were impossible to count, as there seemed to be as many stars as the people who had lived, and will live, in the universe.

 

Ron, per usual, was confused.

 

“Harry Potter, where?” He looked around the tall grasses briefly seeing nothing but fireflies and hearing nothing but cicadas. He then gave up to gaze again into Nephasus’ emerald green eyes. Of course, her name could not be Nephasus now, as he appeared to be a boy now but--

 

A thought struck him. Ron looked up at his father, seeing his all but widening eyes on the boy gripping his hand, then looked back at the same child, right above the scraggly, silky black hair, at the lightning shaped scar on his forehead.

 

 He had heard the tale of Harry Potter and Halloween, everyone in the wizarding world had. And yet, seeing the person he had known for longer than he could ever remember in that light, the light of an almost untouchable hero, it was odd. Almost comical.

 

 “Oh,” he breathed.

 

“I need to get you to the Ministry! Oh Merlin, the Order has been searching up and do-- The muggle police! We must inform them of course, oh and you probably hadn’t had a good meal in _ages_ , probably not ever since your parents--”

 

“You knew my parents?” Harry cut off the man’s odd jumble string of words he didn’t understand, looking up at him expectantly.

 

His mouth closed and he slowly smiled in the dim light.

 

“Well, yes. You look just like your dad, James, you know. Might be able to see ‘em better in the light, but your eyes are your mother’s.”  

 

 Ron sniffed at that.

 

 Truly, blessing like this should be harder to come by, Harry thought.

 

“But oh!” He exclaimed, quickly gathering both children in his arms and taking out what appeared to Harry as a rather weird stick. “We really must go now!”

 

  “Wai--” And suddenly, nothingness.

 

It was like the odd experience he felt when he ended up next to the ranch house after sheep-induced panic, if not longer. He felt a horrible pressure all around him, and a pulling, as if he were being tugged from a fish hook at his navel quickly down a small, metal tube. He tried to hold his breath, to make the sensation better, but the air was forced out of his lungs.

 

And suddenly, as soon as the sensation had come, it had vanished. Harry was left on the floor of _somewhere,_ coughing and catching his breath.

 

“You know Ronnie, you should be used to it by-- Oh Harry! I’m so sorry, let me help you up!”

The red headed man helped Harry off the ground as he was helping air get into his lungs, ignoring his actual child, gasping a bit less next to Harry.

 

“Where, what was that?” Harry asked, quite breathless, being peeled up from the ground.

 

“Side-along Apparition Harry, a way of magical transportation,” He replied, quite proudly. “You’ll learn that where we are Harry! We’re just a bit far off from the best Wizarding institution there is. Hogwarts…”

 

The man turned the young child around by his shoulders. Harry was greeted with a huge, distant castle, standing tall, stones glittering with what it appeared to be from far away, torchlight. He gasped, for about the nth time that day.

 

 “...School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

 

 _Magic…_ Harry thought, not even caring if he spoke it aloud or not. However many stars were in the sky, it never could compare to this.

 

  * -



 The last thing Hermione was expecting when she tiptoed out of the house that early morning and raised her hand to her head at the curb was a bus to suddenly appear.

 

The _crack-bang_ type sound that emerged with it was deafening, knocking Hermione off her feet. Her hands had been skinned by the pavement, but all she could notice was the doors of the dark purple bus suddenly opening, greeting her to a man in a conductor’s outfit.

 

“Welcome to the Knight Bus!” He said, not getting up from his driver’s seat at the front, which appeared more like a couch than anything. After a few seconds of the awe struck Hermione not doing anything but lie in the grass, he glanced in her direction.

 

“Say, lassie, you ‘ook a little ‘ung to be riding this, sure ‘ou don’ call on accident?”

 

Hermione then understood something again, for the second time that day. She shook her head, eyes never going off the man or the bus, and dusted herself off. Standing up and walking onto the bus, she decided her forms of logic could be put aside for now.

 The Knight Bus was a bit of a terrible place, Hermione noted. She wasn’t one to judge people with certain attributes, such as the completely abhorrent cloaks and cone shaped hats they wore, or how they smelled, or the many disjointed and yellow pairs of teeth that appeared to jarr at her-- ok, maybe she did judge a bit.

 

  But it was all worth it to get nearer and near to whichever place held this solid compulsion. She was half convinced that this contrived chain of events was a lucid dream, but even so, the bus was a form of transportation that meant she did not have to walk miles and miles to a place she had no knowledge of. And it appeared suddenly, when she needed it, without preamble. If this wasn’t a sign from God, she didn’t know why her parents were even taking her to bible study class.

 

Although, she soon thought it as a mistake. The Knight Bus lurched and spinned, pushed luggage and people, and did nauseating acts which Hermione wasn’t sure abided by the laws of physics. She wished to get off as soon as it got moving, and it appeared that the other very odd looking individuals did too, from their very green faces.

 

 This was also the first time Hermione had never questioned anything or anyone when in a new experience. Everything was odd, topsy-turvy as soon as she had stepped on the curb, but Hermione, more than anything, was afraid. When without her parents in any situation, she often played up a bookish front, or stood around, like any scared child would. Hermione, without a doubt, was experiencing the latter now, scrunching her eyes closed and knowing for sure now that this was a horrific fever dream.

 

  When the conductor man had asked if she wanted to go to an array of places she was pretty she didn’t exist in London, Hermione replied with, “I’ll shout when we get there,” receiving a questioning face back. She now regretted that choice, as when she felt that feeling of _rightness_ , and shouted “Stop!”, she was lurched all the way back to the front of the bus, in which, while she was on the ground, the conductor announced, “That’ll be 12 sickles ma’am, and ‘ou sure ‘ou don’ wan’ tha hot chocolate? Yer nose looks a little red.”

 

All Hermione registered from that sentence, groaning from being rolled around the floor, is that she had no idea what 'Sickles' were.

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly had way more fun writing Hermione in conflict than I should of. And the references I put in for no reason, especially the first sentence. Heh, hope you enjoyed!


	6. Gloss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mr. Potter.” He smiled, twinkle in his eye. Harry turned to face him, body half out the door.
> 
> “Welcome to Hogwarts, dear boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me why I'm updating this at 12 am when I had plenty of time during the day to do so. You'll never get a good answer. On another note, you guys already know flashbacks in this story are a trigger of their own, heed with warning my precious readers. Also, don't ask me why I typed that trigger warning like that. It's 12 am.

“You said you lived over there by yourself, didn’t you?” he questioned. 

 

  “Yes,” Harry answered, standing up straighter. He was a bit proud of what he had accomplished on his own, as the Dursley’s had mentioned before in cutting remarks that he wouldn’t survive a day without their care. It was euphoric experience to prove them wrong. 

 

 The hysteria Arthur Weasley had from finally finding The-Boy-Who-Lived had all but worn off. While they walked up to the castle from the place Arthur had apparated from, Arthur asked several questions about what Harry had done for the past year, getting just about the same amount of contrived responses that Harry felt he had gotten from Arthur when asking about magic. All Harry really got out of it was that a world, a  _ magical world, _ had been searching for him.

 

Harry knew before, in a vague type of way, that magic existed. In the other life he had lived in, Ancient Egyptian culture was all but centered around magic and the gods. The other many lives he lived and vaguely remembered had to have also been created by magic of some sort, he thought. And here, when he was with the Dursleys, some events that had happened around him could never be explained by logical means. From his hair never growing longer or saying cut shorter, to his odd disappearances and appearances whenever he was afraid. They were all small miracles to him, although often left bad consequences. The best and worst situation Harry had been through in that aspect was the one time he had turned invisible for about a week. 

 

 Attempting to breathe quieter so Uncle Vernon would not notice him while washing the plates had been the past time of that week. The Dursley’s had invited the new neighbors every day of the week to their house, so the dishes had to be done late after, when Uncle Vernon was smelling with that dark, burning liquid Harry now knew as booze. His attempts of not being noticed rarely succeed, yet when they did, well, those late nights were the first time Harry had cried tears of joy. Tonight would be the last night, a Saturday where the rain drizzled down all day and late into the midnight. No one but Harry and his Uncle were downstairs.

 

The had been a crash of lightning. Then the crash of a glass bottle. 

 

“Boy!” Harry jumped at the stool he stood on. His Uncle’s words were slurred, footsteps pounding as the large man made his way into the kitchen. 

 

“Well what yer fucking waiting for! Come here!” He scrambled to stand in front of the raging man, looking up in fear at his bloodshot eyes and shadowed features.  

 

 Without warning, the man striked Harry in the face with a broken beer bottle. 

 

 Black clouded his vision, colors danced behind his eyelids, and all Harry could think of was the looming black shadow  _ above? _ below him. He knew that the man would kill him, that there was no escape. It made him terribly afraid, shivers running up his spine. Where would his body go? Where would _ he _ go? 

 

 At that moment, as the man prepared to take another swing, Harry had wished he were already dead. That he was non-existent to the world, just so he would not have to bear through it by the hands of this man. 

 

 And awhile after that, he realized the man, broken beer bottle still in hand, could not see him anymore, and was still staring at the place Harry had been before he regained consciousness and scrambled between the kitchen cabinet door. And the man would not see him again until approximately a week afterwards, when Harry was sure he was dead enough to finally feel safe in the house again. 

 

 But yes, Harry knew miracles and magic. What he didn’t know was how vast it was. 

 

 They were now in front of the gargantuan castle, and from afar, a river of silky black riveted through the plane. 

 

“Mer-people live there,” Arthur commented, knocking on a grand door every other minute, one taller than everyone who stood outside’s heights combined and doubled.“Even a giant octopus! And oh, I guess I should have told McGonagall or Dumbledore that you were coming! I was in such a rush…”

 

 The large, chamber-like door opened after a short intermission of waiting, greeting three people with a man who sneer was in the light before his features were visible. 

 

“ _ Weasle _ , it is past 4 am. Professor Dumbledore had told you only to use this entrance in the case of an emergenc--” The oily black haired man’s scorning took an abrupt stop as in the light of his lumos,  he saw the boy left to Weasley staring at him. One with vibrant green eyes. 

 

Harry was hyper-aware in that moment that Ron was still gripping his calloused hand. He held it a bit tighter.

 

“Come in,” the man said abruptly, before turning and striding into the castle.

  * -



Snape had just finished his third potion of the day when he was met with the biggest shock he could ever ask for.

 Harry Potter looked like his father. Underneath that dirt smudged face and scar on his forehead was James Potter, without a doubt. And yet…

 

 Snape was staring at the boy as they walked through the Great Hall and to Dumbledore’s study. The boy was in amazement and disbelief of every little thing around him, which Snape guessed, most children would be. But there was an odd sort of weariness about it, a thankfulness, a look in the eyes he tried hard not to stare at that was way too old for a child to have. 

“Canary Creams,” He uttered, letting the gargoyle move aside and reveal a staircase. He knew Dumbledore would be up this late, pondering or such other thing that that man did. Knocking on the oaken door and trying his best to not to look at the shabbily dressed boy behind him, Snape wasn’t surprised to hear the Headmaster call for him to enter. 

 

“Weasley found the boy!” Snape said without introduction. Dumbledore’s eyebrows raised as he got up from his desk. Snape could see the professor was staring straight at the young child by the door, who was staring at the bobbles around Dumbledore’s office with intrigue. He was obviously skinny, short in stature, and wore an oversized raggedy shirt with faded jeans. Snape noted that he had no shoes on, feet dirty and looking like dried leather. 

 

“Well really my son did, said he had to go someplace in the middle of the night and well...” Weasley tapered off, staring at his son and Potter, close to one another, holding hands. Everyone’s eyes were on the pair, looking at them oddly as they took in the vastness of the room. 

 

“Wait… Ron, how did you know Harry was there?”

 

Ron turned quickly to face his father, Harry’s eyes following soon afterwards.

 

“How did I know Neph- _ Harry  _ was there? Er… I don’t know.”

 

It was honestly the most pitiful response to a question Snape had ever heard, and if that did not frustrate him enough… 

 “I sorta didn’t really know he  _ was  _ Harry Potter until a few moments ago, really.”

 

 If the looks that were in the pair’s direction were not confused enough, the red-headed boy decided to speak again, after seconds of awkward silence. 

 

“I knew him some like a thousand years ago, I think,” Ron muttered quietly, eyebrows creasing together. Only Snape and Mr. Weasley heard that remark, and were starting to question the boy’s sanity. Weasley’s eyebrows rose and he turned more so to face his son. 

 

None the wiser, Dumbledore carried on. 

 

“Professor Snape, take Mr. Potter to the Hospital Wing while we discuss this matter,” Dumbledore directed, turning his gaze to the young boy who was now being ushered out the door, Weasley’s child dutifully following.

 

“Mr. Potter.” He smiled, twinkle in his eye. Harry turned to face him, body half out the door.

 

“Welcome to Hogwarts, dear boy.”


	7. Military Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a crash.

“What do you mean, you hadn’t known the boy before? Your child obviously knows him.”

 

 Snape questioned Weasley, who was looking a lot like a live wire, bedhead still sticking up imputently. He sat in the chair adjacent to the one Snape settled in after returning, legs crossed beneath his night clothes. Dumbledore was still sitting across from them at his desk. As many from the Order that could be there in such short notice were also present:  Lupin, Moody, and McGonagall, who was thinking rather stand-offishly that Dumbledore should have listened to her warning and never left Harry on that doorstep in the first place.

 

 “Well, I knew  _ of  _ him, I mean, everyone does. And Order work of course.” He nodded to Dumbledore. “But I am pretty sure Ron had never spoke of having a friend somewhere distant, or that he even been to that place before. He just came into our room in the middle of the night…” 

 Weasley went on to explain the odd circumstances as to why he had found The-Boy- Who-Lived at some field-like place he guessed was Wales. He told them all what Potter had told him, which was that he had lived on a tomato farm for awhile, with no one else. The boy said it was because the place, “called to him? I mean, that is what he said”, eliciting eyebrow raises from the group of adults. 

 

“D’you think this area has some sort of compulsion charm on it? Death Eaters could be luring children in,” Moody suggested, magical eye twirling in suspicion. 

 

 “But then Alastor, they would have done something long ago when they found out Harry was there,” Lupin retorted, skeptical that any dark wizard had done anything of the sort. Moody glared at him. 

 

 “Might be waiting for the chil’rin to get comfortable… then out of nowhere snatch ‘em into their jaw--!”

 

“Yes,” Snape interrupted, “I’m sure many Death Eaters would indeed imitate a shark and eat the children, Moody. But the ones I spy occasionally were more or so lackluster ever since their Master had died, and, from what I gathered, put to fruition no plans of the sort.”

 

 Moody sniffed. 

 

  “Never mind this nonsense. We have the boy now, and he needs to stay with us. Surely we have agreed he will not be placed back with, with  _ those people _ ,” McGonagall spoke, nose scrunching up in recollection of the Dursleys. Everyone in the office seemed to be upset in different ways at their mentioning.  

 

  “We will inform the Aurors and muggle police of our finding of Mr. Potter first, then discuss the matter of placement. Until then, he will stay at the castle,” Dumbledore announced, twirling a lemon drop between his fingers. 

 

There was an overwhelming feeling of relief in the room, a release of tension after months and months of frantic searching for Harry Potter. Snape was glad mostly that the boy had not ended up dead, or in a worse situation than he had been. Although, he was a little miffed at Weasley finding him without trying though, after the griefful time he had spent searching and came up regretfully empty-handed. 

 

“Tell me, How was Harry when you spoke to him?” Lupin questioned Weasley after moments of comfortable silence, a sort of fearful look in his eye. 

 

  Weasley’s face took on a pensive look, then he uttered, “Fine, I guess, for all that had happened, anyway. Didn’t mention the muggles at all, now that I think of it. He looked really glad to have someone to talk to, but sort of... Tentative… Oh, and actually, there were some odd things. When I asked why he left the Dursley’s, he just sorta stared at his feet oddly, then didn’t answer. I also asked why he was out of that farm house he lived in, we found him in the grass, and he said it was his  _ birthday _ , or something along those lines. I--”

 

  There was a crash. 

 

 Moody was the first to lead the group of adults out of the office, running in the direction of the infirmary.That put all the remaining group in panic, trailing behind equally as quickly. 

 

“No!” A scream was the first thing they heard as they entered. Potter was backed into a corner, tears freely flowing from his eyes. He was the epicenter for a torrent of chaos, bricks, beds and other objects in the room flying around haphazardly, including his old clothes. It appeared that Madame Pomfrey had given him a less ill-fitting outfit, as he now sported a black cloak instead of the rags he had on before. All except the shoes, a rather small pair of dragonskin boots in the Healer’s hand that a distressed Harry glared at fearfully. Snape assumed the crash they heard was whatever object that destroyed a sizable hole into the left wall of the hospital wing, about 8 paces where Pomphrey stood. 

 

“Poppy!” 

 

 The Healer turned to them through the chaos with an equally as distressed face.

 

 “I was just--” she voiced in hysteria, moving the shoes in a forward manner. Mid-sentence, they burst into flames. Madame Pomfrey jolted them away from her. 

 

The flame reflected off the glossy eyes of Harry as he stared into it, lost expression on his face. Some of the group had now just noticed Ron beside him, kneeling, murmuring something. 

 

 “Please… don’t make me…” The boy dropped and curled down into himself, the things flying around the room stopping mid-flight and crashing down with him. Ron wrapped his hands around the boy. Madame Pomfrey and the other adults tried to duck and cover at the objects, but Dumbledore simply cast a strong shielding charm around them. 

 

 When everything finally fell, he did a complex movements with his wand, righting and fixing everything in the room, including the large hole in the wall. All except the boots, which sat on the floor in ashes. 

 

  Weasley, as soon as he recovered, ran up to his son and Potter. The rest of the group, except Moody, who stayed at the door, eye whirling, approached the focal point of the damage a bit slower. 

 

 “After giving him a check-up and some potions, I had given him spare clothes, rags really, the ones he was wearing before. But when we got to the shoes… well, you saw what had happened,” the Healer half-whispered to the group of adults. 

 

And they did see. Snape was amazed at that huge display of accidental magic, especially at something as trivial as not wanting to put on shoes. He then remembered what odd behavior Weasley had mentioned earlier.

 

 The words hadn’t ceased from the Weasley child’s mouth, although up close, it was something Snape had never heard before, and was quite disorientating to hear. Some sort of Arabic dialect maybe? It was spoken just about fluently by the boy, and Harry, from his quiet responses and slightly less empty eyes, looked to be reacting to it. Both children on the floor appeared too occupied with each other to even notice the adults looming over them, even the worried Weasley, who called out Ron’s name twice.

 

 On a whim, Snape walked closer, and decided to use Legilimency to find out what spooked the boy so terribly, maybe even find out why he had left the Dursley’s originally. The boys eyes snapped up, and Snape felt a jolt in his entire being. 

 

“No.”

 

 It was said with such fervor, yet so coldly, Snape couldn’t tell for a second if this was a 7 year old speaking to him, or something else, something to be  _ feared _ . Not to mention Snape could not even see a glimpse of Potter’s mind, something even a trained wizards had trouble with. 

 

But regardless, the boy suddenly stood, horrible glare on his face, pointing in Snape’s direction. 

 

“I’m leaving,” He announced, tone equally as icy and striking.

 

 “Wait, Harry, please don--!” Lupin shouted. There was another crash.

 

   Everyone turned to the direction of the sound, a window in the Hospital Wing crashing in suddenly, and a human shape falling through it and onto the floor.

 

“Well!” The shape uttered, a small girl’s voice. She then raised her head, bushy hair covered in glass, staring a few second at the figures of Ron and Harry as they stared back. The events that followed happened in a matter of seconds.

  Harry and Ron both grabbed the girl up by her arms, pulled her close to them, then were gone with a wind-displacing  _ crack _ and golden swirls of magic _. _

 

__ Snape jumped to snag them before they left, but it was too late.

 

  He gawked at the place the children had been just seconds prior, regret and grief coming to a head in his mind. How had he let them escape? How  _ did  _ they escape?

 

 A late Kingsley Shacklebolt stood at the Hospital Wing door.

 

 “What in Merlin’s Beard just happened here?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unimportant blights in my life. I love The Beatles, and I found that The End, the ending song of Abbey Road, is actually the last song they made, which gave me a sense of melancholy. I loved the like only words at the end of that one, which was 'and in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make,' and to think that that's practically their last statement... Then the song The story of an Artist by Daniel Johnston was in an Apple commercial, and dang, that song is raw and odd, but really emotional to me. I didn't know about this man before the apple commercial, I'm planning on getting a Pixel, and I probably won't listen to his other songs, but music hit me where it hurts today, and felt it. A lot.
> 
> Anyway, as always, I hope you enjoyed the chapter and thank so much for even reading this far!


	8. Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course she knew this wasn’t exactly correct, as she and Ron had to go home sometime, and the people he and Harry had told her about were still searching for them, and all the innumerable, peculiar variables that were still in disarray and would come to strike their happiness when given a chance. But regardless, they were together, and together, they could do anything.

  And now, they had found it together. 

 

 Took a bit of crying, glass breaking, waiting, and midnight trips, but regardless, they had found it.

 

 Hermione was rather pleased with herself. She had got out of bed this morning, went on an elusive and gut-wrenching bus, evaded paying for it, went through tall grasses and an equally odd city to find a big castle, knock on its door, and once they didn’t answer, climb and break the window with something she liked to logically explain to herself as  _ momentum.  _ It’s not as if the fact behind this truly mattered, the window had been closer to the proof afterall. And finally, most satisfyingly, she found that  _ Proof.  _ Even better, her proof was two people she was sure she had known for centuries. 

 

 The most vivid memories she had were of them were in an Ancient Egyptian setting, where they fought in battle together. It had been an affair of waltzing around each other and self-discovery that they all knew well. It was comical now, living in the present, or the past of these experiences. Although, sometimes it was grim and shallow, remembering you are not the same person, crying over things that had happened so long ago it can be considered  _ ancient,  _ the anguish, emptiness and grief of each other's deaths, even if they are sitting right there with you.

 

 The others remembered all this vividly too, crying and laughing and having reverie in the dewy morning grass. Although, the three, as soon as they spoke to each other, did remember tid-bits of other lives, before and after that time period. Hermione guessed it was because Ancient Egypt was the last era they lived, they all remembered it the most. Although she was not sure of this and she, for the first time in this lifetime, did not care to know.

 

  Ron, stating odd muggle facts he barely understood nowadays and which had to be re-explained to him, spoke of being victorian scholars, while Harry claimed they were all caterpillars on this farm he had brought them to and lived on. In all of them, no matter what, they were together. And Hermione knew all of this as true, regardless of that useless logical side she had relied on just hours prior. And now that she accepted it, she had found so many more worlds to explore, troubles to worry about, and questions that needed to be answered. But, as of right now, she had found bone-deep  _ contentment _ , and that was alright with her.

  Ron was smiling more brightly than he thought he had in ages. What his actions, and everyone else's had did, was bring him together with his soulmates. Whether they were Khnurn, or Nephasus, or college students, or a bunch of rather green caterpillars, Ron had them now, and felt a certain  _ rightness _ in the world, a rightness he now realized he had wished to feel for a long time. It reminded him of the conversation he had had with Harry, a whole lifetime ago.

 

_  “Who are we, really?”  _

 

  Ron knew the answer then as he knew it now.  _ Who _ and  _ what _ they really was a trivial, unimportant thing. It did not matter. Just as long as they had each other.

 

 And Harry, well Harry was feeling an array of emotion, as he had been all day, really. First his birthday, then the sheep, then Abraxas, then magic, then the boots, then  _ Khnurn _ , and now...

Well, it had been a full, anxiety ridden day. One thing he knew for sure after the experience: he never wanted to take another step into this experience again, besides all the wonder he had seen. Everything was a mish-mash of the greens and blues and yellows of emotion, growing darkest and most elusive in the spectrum when thinking of Hogwarts. And especially that one man, who tried to read Harry’s mind. He was almost absolutely sure, thinking of the man’s black coat suffocating him, glare attempting to penetrate thoughts he didn’t even want to see, Harry never wanted to see the man again if he could help it. 

 

But more than anything, Harry felt the blush orange and pink of love. Ever since finding  _ Them, _ the whole puzzle piece to put the picture together, a warmth spread through his body, one he only felt would dim when they were not around. There was a buzzing when they came together, and no matter how much time had passed, Harry was absolutely sure the buzzing would never dim. 

 

 “What do we do now?” He asked lazily, tear tracks flaking on his skin, lying in the grass of his home with the people that made him feel more at home. The sun was rising in such a display of beautiful, bright pinks and oranges, and large dandelions he had eaten from time to time swayed a bit in the wind, letting go of never seeds and loose dewey petals.  

 

Hermione hummed, staring at the sky. She had always had a straightforward plan before, the others noted. She turned to face the others. 

 

 “Whatever we want.” Hermione smiled. 

 

 Of course she knew this wasn’t exactly correct, as she and Ron had to go home sometime, and the people he and Harry had told her about were still searching for them, and all the innumerable, peculiar variables that were still in disarray and would come to strike their happiness when given a chance. But regardless, they were together, and together, they could do anything.

  * -



  There was a man, barely a man really, and a prophecy. There was a fairytale. Somehow, these seemingly contradistinctive things aligned. 

 

Now, on a certain Halloween night, the Dark Lord had not only went into Godric’s Hollow to defeat any adversity that stood in his way, but for a factor in his search for eternal life. 

 

There was no doubt in his mind that the Tale of the Three Brothers was true. It was common knowledge around wizarding culture, but mostly by hopeful or arrogant fools who knew not the power the story truly poses. Some, only a bit less foolish than the others, had actually seen this potential, and had tried to find or wield the power of the story. Of the Deathly Hallows. 

 

Only, Lord Voldemort would be the first to contain that power. To be, as the prophesied, the Master of Death. He was sure of it.

 

 Voldemort had, while also building his ranks and attempting to destroy the ranks of that blasted old fool Albus Dumbledore, been investigating the properties of the story, and where the Hallows might be hiding. The objects must have shown their roots somewhere in Wizarding culture throughout the years, if they did really exist. 

 

Only, to his frustration and the  _ crucio-ed _ pain of his Death Eaters, all his analysis of anyone ever have wield an Elder Wand, or Invisibility Cloak, or the Resurrection Stone he had  _ longed  _ to have within his control, turned up blank. 

 

Until he had stumbled upon people, scattered across history, recorded to have the powers of the Deathly Hallows.  

 

 Voldemort did not think it was a stretch when he saw these individuals were scarce and had less documentation than the average hippogriff, and vaguely had the Hallows’ power. He did not think it as a stretch when the prophecy he had gotten by his advisor Snape foretold his downfall by a hidden foe, a child that had matched up with the one he had said the Potter’s had, the one that had turned _ invisible _ in his carriage while the Potters had been in Leaky Cauldron briefly at the same time Snape had been. 

 

 He did not think it as a stretch to assume the Deathly Hallows were passed down to different people throughout history, and this boy, without a doubt his new _ foe _ , had inherited one. 

And so, on a rather cold and dark Halloween night, Lord Voldemort had stormed into the cottage on Godric’s Hollow, not only to destroy the boy and have nothing stand in his way, but to inherit the Invisibility Cloak by destroying him, the first factor in his immortality.

 

With a bang, a scream, a cry, and a flash of green light, Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr. never got that far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A complete mood change in the story, one of which the author's honestly more proud of the first half. But I've been planning the second half for awhile, and honestly didn't know where to put it for the longest time. I also half regret Hermione's situation not being explained through riveting story-telling and with, for lack of better words, exposition and happenstance? I'm sorry! Thank all of you so much for reading though, and oh my gosh, 1000 hits? When did this happen?! I'm more proud of all the people reading for continuing to read more than myself, I love all of your comments, kudos, and advice. Again, thank you so much for reading.


	9. Tall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry was especially happy, happier than he had been in awhile, to see Ron and Hermione arguing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally revised this more than several times, hoping I didn't drop the ball on quality, and live up to you guys expectations. As of now, I'm not sure I did at all, but I sincerely hope you enjoy!

  


“You know, you really could just tell your parents about it.”

  


 “Says the boy whose parent is still chasing after--”

  


“Hey! I didn’t know he was Harry--”

  


 “From what I understand of this world, there's literally a huge scar on his forehead--”

  


 “Well you’re the one complaining about  _ bus transit _ or summat--”

  


 Harry was especially happy, happier than he had been in awhile, to see Ron and Hermione arguing. It put him in a fanciful state, smiling fondly, crouched on the grass with them. Laying beside him was a salted caramel brownie, growing sticky in the sunlight. 

  


  After lying to her parents about going to her friend's house for long walks, Hermione had returned to the farmhouse every day for a couple hours on the Knight Bus. With the help of Ron and his, as Hermione dubbed it, ‘crazy people money’, she paid the bus fare, and complained about the monetary system while doing it. She also snuck new food from her house every time she returned, abhorred that Harry would constantly eat tomatoes and nothing else every single day. 

  


 Harry never mentioned that when at the Dursley’s, he never was allowed to eat much of anything but stale bread and tap water. And when the food she brought: mini snack cakes, scrambled eggs, dry cereal, fruits, and leftovers from her fridge, gave him cramps and sometimes made him throw-up from being too rich, he didn’t mention that either. 

  


  Ron’s father had told the other people searching for Harry where they were. The odd thing was, none of them could approach the house in the knolls. Ron had acquired this information at dusk, when he eventually decided to walk out into the clearing of the road, checking to see if any had found their de facto sanctuary. He would never admit to screeching like a merperson at the sight he saw. The adults, all except Dumbledore, were intently focused on casting things on what looked to Ron as part of a huge, golden barrier around the area, separating Ron from them. The scream he would never admit to caught their attention, shocked and worried eyes falling down upon him. 

  


 “Ron, Ronnie! Are you alright?” Mr. Weasley stepped to the front, appearing more old than Ron had ever seen him. Ron, although it being his father, could not have forced himself to feel a shrivel of remorse.

  


  He mustered up confidence, stepped out of the tall grass, and shouted, “G-Go away! N-Harry doesn’t want to see you!”

  


Right as he said it, the force-field in front of Ron glowed a brighter gold and propelled the adults away with a sizable _ bang _ . Although Ron had no idea how that happened, he felt smug.

  


 “Could you brats just let us enter the wards?” Snape groaned along with the others, dusting himself off. 

 Ron was half sure a ward was whatever prevented them from taking Harry away, so he spoke again, stepping towards the adults, pointedly glaring at the greasy haired man. 

  


  “He said he liked you the least, you greasy git! Never wants to see you a-- Ack!” Ron promptly tripped on his own feet, in the middle of the golden translucent barrier. His father was on him in an instant, scooping him into his arms. 

  


 “Oh Ron, your mother was so worried!” He exclaimed, completely ignoring that the boy in his arms was embarrassedly clawing to get out of them. The other adults peered curiously at the golden blockade the child was now on the opposite side of, ignoring Ron’s anguish at being reunited with his father. 

  


 “Blood Wards,” Moody announced. The others’ heads swiveled in his direction, confused. 

  


 “What do you mean, blood wards? Weasley could not get in either,” McGonagall questioned. They had been there for about 3 hours, being bounced back by this ward that was nearly impenetrable. All except for Ron, who fell through it from the inside with ease. 

  


 “I know that! But...” His eye whizzed around in its socket as he nodded his head to Ron in his father’s hands, still scrambling to get away. Weasley’s sight hadn’t left the boy in his arms. 

  


 “Dad, let go!” Ron shouted, frustrated. The man’s grip would not loosen. “Dad, Dad! Ugh...  _ Arthur! _ ”

  


 The man’s arms fell quickly, his person staggered as if he were under an  _ imperious _ . Ron ran back over the gold line, catching his breath once he covered enough distance.

  


 “Wha--, what did you just call me?” Weasley asked with a searching, wide-eyed face. He stood, shock-frozen, staring at his son, unreachable although only at most 10 feet away.

  


 “You heard me.” 

  


 Ron glared, head turning back to face the adults. There was a tense silence, one that felt as if it went on for eons, not seconds. 

  


  “Ron,” Arthur pleaded finally, “please come back home.”

  


   “This is home.” He retorted adamantly.

  


  And that was true. This was the place the people Ron loved more than anything were, the place where he was never afraid and never forgotten about. Where people cared about his opinions and how he felt rather than continuity of the status quo, or whatever rubbish. That was not to say he hated his birth family. Without a doubt, he loved them, too. But here, he had everything he had ever wanted and more. Of course Ron knew that he could not stay here all his life, but for now, even if he had only been here a day, this was where he always wanted to be. 

  


 And he told Harry and Hermione as much when he left the adults and marched back to them in the tall grass, feeling a warm, bit selfish, all enrapturing affection in his chest at the thought of them tersely waiting for his return. Less told, more hugged them long after they had complained about it being too tight. 

  


Now it had been weeks since then, and the three had settled into a pattern. Hermione came with food and more often than not books to practically shove in front of Harry’s face and down his throat, they did activities together or basked in the sun, and Ron checked the barrier before Hermione left again to see if the adults were still there, or if the wards were still up. Ron only saw his father from afar, very occasionally, and his other family, not at all. Not that he minded, as laughing and crying, laying and basking, remembering and having reverie, and complaining and arguing with Harry and Hermione was way more entertaining than moping and being homesick. Each of them, even after the time passed, never felt like they had moments to waste, and they never felt tired of each other’s company. 

  


 “Yes but you said--”

  


  “I know what I said but--”

  


 “Well why don’t we ask--”

  


 “Harry!” “Hey Nephy!”

  


 Harry was shocked out the fond gaze, staring confusedly at Ron and Hermione.

  


 “What?” He questioned, while Hermione rolled her eyes at him not listening. 

  


 “Well it was a suggestion that I had--” Ron started. “ _ I had _ ,” Hermione finished. 

  


  “And well…” she continued. 

  


 “Would you like to practice with a khopesh again?”

  


     Harry remembered the khopesh he owned. A sword, bent downward then curved, made of fine iron. When still an Egyptian warrior, that was Nephasus’s weapon of choice, along with her mace and shield, as the metal felt nice in her hand and had many different ways of use. 

  


 Remembering things like that, such as how he felt about a sword thousands of years ago, made Harry feel old. It was odd how he wasn’t the same person, but still felt the same things, such as the pain of an arrow wound, or the sorrowful and righteous mood before battle, or raven hair falling upon his shoulders.  _ Phantom pains _ , he summarized in thought. 

  


But regardless, he was still happy they mentioned it. He was happy with whatever they did.

  


 “Of course, but how…?”

  


“Well, you said it was your birthday a couple of weeks ago, and although I’m pretty sure it wasn’t, I found out I could do something really cool a while ago…” Ron run-on, face flushing crimson, practically jittering up and down in the grass. 

  


   Ron got up and knelt in the grass, then scourged around for something. He then held a spoon in both his hands, looking rather odd to a confused Harry. With a concentrated face from Ron a small tendrils of cobalt magic, the spoon began jump and shake excitedly, before flashing into a heavy sword, metal gleaming in the sunlight. 

Hermione gave a smug smile.

  


_ A khopesh _ , Harry’s mind supplied him as he gasped. 

  


 “Happy Birthday,” Ron half-mumbled, blushing almost as red as his hair. 


	10. Short Back Ranch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Potter sent a letter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another chapter! I just want to disclose, I've never actually written a letter or had one addressed to me, lol. I hope you don't see that I'm winging it. And again, I love you guys so much, thanks for all the kudos and comments, and thanks for reading.

  There was no potions to be brewed, no children to scorn at the beginning of the school year, no Dark Lords to spy on, and no other trivial thing Snape filled his daily life with to distract from the task at hand. If there even was one, he mused bitterly. 

 

 Why had he scared the boy into leaving a second time? Why had he let the boy escape? Why was he stormily moping around in his classroom again, constantly resentful of himself as he had been all those years ago? All these questions filled Snape’s mind, making him snappy. 

 

 The boy should not have been able to escape in the first place. No person, except perhaps Dumbledore, had ever been able to apparate through the wards at Hogwarts, not to mention  _ side-along _ apparition. It should have been impossible. And in the same context, Snape thought bitterly, it  _ should have _ been impossible for a young child to be able to be perfect at Occlumency, or create a powerful ward, or _ survive the killing curse _ . 

 

 Harry James Potter did a lot of  _ should-have-been-impossible  _ things.

 

 The Order and the Aurors now were at the will of an 8 year old, as the only way to get the boy was through the ward, and infuriatingly enough, it was too powerful for even Dumbledore to dismantle. Some rubbish about the power of love and family prevented any person from being in the area. And oddly enough, the power of  _ Death, _ Dumbledore had said. Although that made Snape weary a bit, he put no mind to it. This was his fault, and he needed to correct it, regardless of whatever idiotic thing the boy did to stop him from doing so. 

 

   But alas, all they could do was wait now, as all their efforts were failures. It frustrated Snape to no end, allowing him fuel to steep in his chambers again, as he always did. 

 

 There was a knock on the door. 

 

“Come in,” Snape said, expecting another teacher, a student, or even Dumbledore. It was none of them. 

 

  Alastor Moody walked into the room, ever suspicious look upon his face. 

 

 “Order meeting,” he uttered without preamble, already moving out the door. He was the only constant nowadays, with the constant order meeting needing his presence. Snape had gotten used to his conspiracy driven and distrustful behavior, if not more than a little annoyed at it.

 

  “What about?” Snape questioned, stopping the other. 

 

   “Potter sent a letter.”

 Snape got up from his desk in a heartbeat, already following the man down the hallways and towards Dumbledore’s office. Would the boy finally agree to stop playing this game of cat and mouse and return? Was he flaunting his power over them? A million thoughts on what such a letter would contain flashed through his mind.

 

When they finally reached Dumbledore’s office, everyone from the Order of the Phoenix was assembled, including both Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Mundungus Fletcher, Ephalius Doge, Dedalus Diggle, and Emmeline Vance. 

 

 Dumbledore called everyone to attention. 

 

 “After this meeting, the Order of the Phoenix will dismantle once more, as Harry Potter has been found and is safe.”

 

 There was an usurp of commotion at that decree, mostly varying cries that the boy was not safe at all. Snape couldn’t help but agree with them, and sent an eyebrow raise Dumbledore’s way.

 

 “If I may intrude!” Lupin cried out over the crowd. They quieted a bit, still an overall murmur in the room. 

 

 “Professor Dumbledore, is the contents of the letter that brought us here part of the reason for dismantling the order?” he questioned, placing his palms on the chair McGonagall sat in. 

 

 Dumbledore hummed and nodded, holding out the letter towards Lupin. He grabbed it the letter, which was written on not parchment, but a piece of white paper with ink, looking as if it were folded into a paper airplane. 

 

 “Well, read the damn thing already!” Moody shouted, earning glares from other Order members. Snape glared at him too, but, hypocritically, was just as anxious to find out the contents of the letter.

 

 Lupin complied anyway, eyes already scanning and barely attempting to decode the crossed-out words. 

 

_  “‘Dear  _ ~~_ Wizards _ ~~ __ _~~Witches~~ _ _  Magical Peoples--”  _ Lupin’s eyebrows arched up in humor at that,

 

_   “‘I sent this with a method Ron told me about, where magical officers fly paper airplanes around to send letters. _

 

_   I understand why I’m important to you, whoever reading, and your Wizarding World. Some man who every one is scarred of for no reason killed my parents, but didn’t kill me.  _ _ I ~~really don’t understand how murder is something to be cheery about though, but okay.~~ _ _ I don’t like you people, though. Ron said his dad said I was put with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia because you wanted me safe, but that was an awful choice I think ~~because~~ _ ~~_ they hurt me _ ~~ _ … well I don’t wanna talk about it. And that one doctr woman tried to put boots on me even after I said no. I don’t regret destroying the room I was in. Also, the one man with the black hair  _ ~~_ and looked sorta like a bat _ ~~ _ did some thing. I don’t hate many people, but I like him and her bit less than everyone else now. Becuase that was wrong,  _ ~~_ and I got nightmares about what happened after they did it.  _ ~~

 

_  So now I’m going to be frank, and choose my words wisely before I write much anything else, because Hermione is annoyed at me writing fast and marking out things. I trusted you, you ruined it, and I didn’t like that. But Ron and his father had also said Hogwarts, the wizarding school, was amazing and all the other synonyms for it. I really do want to go there and learn magic, but I truly don’t want to stay with witches and wizards, because from my experiences I didn’t like or trust them. So please, just let me live at the farm I live on for now, and then, when I’m 11, I’ll go to Hogwarts, and return to my home every summer. Besides, from what I understand, the place I’m at is safer because no one can get into it. Ron will return home to his parents if I get the reply I want, but please, let him come back to where I’m living often. _

 

_  I have known Ron for a long while, but please don’t ask why or how he knows me. I also know the girl that broke through your window, her name is Hermione Granger, and if she comes to Hogwarts, don’t blame her for breaking it. She did it to get to me.   _

 

~~_ Choose the right reply _ ~~

_  Choose your reply with caution,  _

_                                            _ ~~_ Neph _ ~~ _ Harry James Potter.’” _

 

   “The boy wrote this?” McGonagall muttered as Lupin passed the note over to her. She felt as if it was a bit incredulous that the child would use multi-syllable words such as  _ synonyms  _ and  _ experiences  _ after not having an education for way over year, even though the handwriting was worse than poor and, to the non-scrutinizing eye, almost unintelligible. And, quite selfishly, she was glad that his parents were Gryffindors. With a bit of writing practice, she noted with a nose wrinkle, he might as well already be her top student. 

 

 “Pass that over!,” Moody gutturally hollered before snatching it from McGonagall’s grasp, earning a scowl in return. 

 

  The letter, partly crumpled in his right hand, was pointed at with his staff. A soft gleam of white magic lifted the strikethroughs off the page, and were suspended in air, moving as if cooked spaghetti. 

 

“ _ Scourgify, _ ” Moody muttered as the squiggly lines of ink disappeared, briskly replacing his staff on the place it was leaning on a chair, holding the letter with both his hands, and reading intently. His blue eye appeared as if it were to pop out any second. 

 

Snape peer down at the note over the man’s shoulder, frown deepening as he read through the note without the striked-out words. Anger was getting the best of him.  _ Of course  _ the boy hated him now.  _ Of course  _ Lily’s sister and her husband had to be abusive. And  _ of course  _ the bludgeoning imbecile child was just going to waltz in with some flimsy agreement, some misconstrued scribble and cross outs, and make Snape’s life even more of a living hell as he had to steep in not seeing the wroughts of his labor and failures for another 3 years. If he felt the guilt and blame of the last dozen months move off him and onto to the child, Snape didn’t mention it. Potter, just like his father, was being intentionally frustrating.

 

“We musn’t abide by the young child’s wishes Dumbledore, letting him stay on some muggle farm by himself…?” He moved his gaze off the letter and to Dumbledore, deep scowl upon his face. 

 

 “Believe it or not, I think, in the agreement young Mr. Potter has strung up, the best wishes of everyone are present Severus,” he assured. 

 

“Do--” Snape was interrupted.

 

 “He’s right, you know,” Kingsley announced by the door. “Nothing can protect him better than that ward he is under. And besides, it’s not like we can just break through it. We’ve tried that.”

 

 Snape sent glare the man’s way.

 

 “I agree with Shacklebolt,” Weasley said, staring down with an empty, contemplative frown, nodding his head in one quick motion. “I’m sure Harry is safer where he is now than.. before. We can talk to the muggle police about that as soon as he gets to Hogwarts. And…” The man’s face was strained. 

 

 “... I want my son back.”

 

 Everyone in the room stared at him and his wife with a bit of pity, Vance putting her hand on Mrs.Weasley’s shoulder, who was appearing as if she were to burst into tears at any second. 

 

 “So it is agreed then?”  Dumbledore queried, moving his gaze around the room.

 

 No one, not even Snape, retorted otherwise. 

 


	11. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he wasn’t glad it happened in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning, references and mentionings of past sexual violence/rape. Many chapters after this will also reference this chapter, so please heed with caution. I really don't know what else to say honestly; sorry for the mood change, thank you for reading.

 

 

Harry was sure he had a nightmare. He did often, and they never got any better.

 

Harry was sure of what the nightmare was about.

_Dirty mattress, large hands, blue boots--_

  

 His breath hitched.

Harry was sure he was crying, and had been screaming earlier, as his throat was sore and he felt a pressure in his chest.

 

 What Harry wasn’t sure about was why there were two sets of small hands wrapped around him tightly, somehow comforting even after having to relive the torture all those hours had been. He wasn’t sure if the hands were even real, really. Just like the fictional comfort of believing those spiders were actively listening to his woes in the dark cupboard all those years ago, he thought this as a fanciful over-extension of his coping mechanism, a degradation of his mental state that the event and isolation had wrought up.

 

 “Oh Harry, it’s okay, it was just a nightmare alright? We’ll be okay…”

 Hermione kneeled over him, tears glistening in her eyes, hair falling in her face. Harry felt horrible for making the people he loved sit through his pain. Ron was in a similar state, holding Harry on his side, speaking words in that ancient language, attempting to assure Harry. Although he felt guilt, Harry was too exhausted, emotionally and physically, to remove himself from their grasp.

  

 He remembered what had happened now. The three were sitting in the grass after fencing with with Harry’s khopesh and much less valuable and breakable sticks, dozing as usual, humming tunes they all partially remembered, and hoping Ron would stay longer than he had the days prior because his father was worried about him not coming back, their relationship being strained. The sun was enveloped by clouds, making the area around humid and thick. Harry must have drifted off into slumber, because the next thing he knew, he was sobbing, gasping,  drizzle dropping on his face, vegetation around him dead, decayed, and brown for some reason.

 

  The three stayed like that for awhile, grasping each other, recovering from the events prior. Ron pulled them all down into the dead grass, side by side, holding each other's hands firmly. They did not speak for a long time, and Harry almost hoped they could stay in that stasis for the rest of eternity. 

 

 “What was the nightmare about?” Ron asked finally, turning his head staring into Harry’s bright eyes. He gently touched Harry’s forearm. Harry flinched.

 

 Harry knew the others would have to find out eventually about what happened when he was at the Dursleys, and he would have to tell them the exact reason why he left. Harry could not lie to them. But, at the the same time, Harry wished he never had to go through with telling them. More than anything, he wished none of it had ever happened in the first place. He shuddered.

 

“You don’t have to tell us if--” Hermione started.

 

 “No, it’s okay, “ Harry cut her off, voice wavering. He lied to himself while saying it, because nothing was _okay_. “You need to know.”

 

 So, the three gathered themselves up again, sitting up-right in the grass, staring intently at Harry. Ron and Hermione both held Harry’s hands firmly.

 Harry spoke, and told them as much as he could about Petunia, Dudley, and Vernon Dursley, and the many episodes he had with them. None were especially nice to him while he lived at Privet Drive, Ron and Hermione knew that already, he had told them before. What they hadn’t known was Vernon’s tendencies to hurt Harry when he got angry, _Harry Hunting_ , the names and taunts, Ms.Dursley’s frying pan, not being told his name or birthday, the constant chores with little food, and a horrifying incident with a beer bottle that Hermione never wanted hear about again. It was heart wrenching to listen to, Iike her worst nightmares come true. She had to bear through how Harry had suffered, with no retribution, no dignity, no intermission.

 

 By the end of it, tears ran down from all their eyes again, and they reverted back to rubbing circles into Harry’s back and murmuring words of comfort. None of them noticed the scratchiness of the dead and wilted vegetation and hardened dirt.

 

 “An--And that's why you left?” Ron couldn’t blame him, he couldn’t possibly be angry or disappointed at Harry for any of it. All throughout his story, Ron felt disgusted, and self-righteously angry at the people. His hands were shaking, radiating with misplaced energy. _Why?_ That question crossed his mind every time Harry stated some even worse than the last, or broke down again, or flinched and shivered at the memories he had to relive just to explain. There could never be a good reason why someone would do this to another person. Inflict enough torture and anguish into someone at the point of which they are afraid to even mention your _name,_ it was despicable. His head was pounding hard, aligned with the precarious beating and roaring in his heart and ears. It was rage, he noted, barely contained _rage_.

 

 “N-no,” Harry palpitate with emotional disturbance, gripping the hands in his tightly.  

 

“I-- I was, I--”

 

A sob ripped through his throat and he was crying again, gasping, nose and throat burning. How could Harry tell them this? It was painful to think about it himself. He had suppressed these memories, he now realized. He had suppressed anything to do with the Dursleys. He had suppressed anything that had to do with _Greene_. They hurt, and Harry didn’t think they would ever not hurt, besides all the memories he had before. Pressure, suffocating pressure built in his chest, mirroring his own anxiety and dread. Everything in this life was a new experience, presently happening, still fresh in his mind and sometimes like now, incredibly painful.

 

 The clouds bundled up in a gray overhead, and the rain began to fall in big droplets, but not at all hard, just very occasionally pattering onto the three’s face. Thunder rumbled in the background. No one appeared to mind one bit.

 

Harry saw the affection, the outrage, and the melancholy in Ron and Hermione’s eyes, and decided to grit his teeth and carry on. He breathed in through his chapped lips. He started.

 

It was morning time, the sun had already risen, and it was raining while also being sunny, Harry had noted all that time ago. The clouds somehow refracted and absorbed the golden light of the sun, rain allowing a delicate rainbow form across the sky. He saw it through the window on his stool while cooking the Dursley’s breakfast, and found it beautiful. Nothing else was even remotely that beautiful about the rest of his day.

 

Uncle Vernon had shouted for him to get in the car, they were going somewhere. Something like that had never happened before, so Harry was quick to turn off the stove on the bacon and follow the man out the door. Aunt Petunia looked at Harry oddly for a bit, then nodded and turned away. Harry had no idea what that meant.

 

 When in the car, Uncle Vernon warned him not to leave the place they were going to, and do whatever the man asked. He would be taken care of by a man named Greene for a few hours, muttering about there being money involved, or some other thing. Harry was just happy to be able to escape from the Dursley house for awhile, like he could in school. The rain had stopped.

 

When they got there, a two story house with an overgrown lawn Aunt Petunia would have sniffed at, Uncle Vernon had greeted the man like a friend at the door, attempting to copy the man’s slightly more accented speech. Greene, a tan-ish tall man with a large cigar in his mouth, had smiled down at Harry with perfect teeth, told him he was a good ol’ boy for staying with him today, and there would be a treat at the end if he stayed good. The man had put his hand on Harry’s shoulder, calloused and firm. That was the first time Harry shivered in his presence.

 

  Harry stopped his retelling for a bit, gripping both Ron and Hermione’s hands even tighter.

 With another deep breath, he continued.

 

 The house was normal sized, average, just like 4 Privet Drive, if not a bit dusty here and there.  Harry had attempted to take off his blue pair of boots at the doormat while Greene spoke, but the man stopped him, saying there was no need, but not saying why. He said, as a growing boy, Harry must be starved and must get something to eat, yet only staring at Harry’s shoes intently while saying it.

 

  He led him into the kitchen and gave Harry candy and sweets with a smile, not even a hint of malice. Harry was amazed, eating almost a quarter of them immediately. The man spoke about his baseball card collection, and said, if Harry came back, he would get a card. Harry didn’t really know much about baseball, but did really want to come back from how the man spoke to him, as an equal, charisma flowing, and fed him treats the Dursley’s never gave him.  

 

 The man then asked, putting down the cigar, if Harry could play a game with him. He said it was to bide time until his Uncle came back to pick him up, and, at the end, he would be able to get that treat he mentioned earlier. Harry was wary because the man had put both his hands on his shoulders and stared intently at Harry’s shoes while telling him this, but he obliged anyway.

 

  But then the man shoved him into a musty smelling room in the basement, and…

 

 Harry felt like vomiting, and almost couldn’t go on with the events. It was his fault, really, even though a tiny voice in the back of his head protested otherwise. He never should have said yes to the man, he was smarter than that, or at least mentally older. Or, he shouldn’t have listened to Uncle Vernon and ran away from the house or, even better, turn invisible like he had before. Harry could have done so much to stop it, yet he _didn’t._ Who really was to blame when he could have stopped the event’s progression? Hermione saw the look in his eye.

 

   

“Oh Harry,” she sighed, “please don’t blame yourself,” assuring him, pulling him into a hug. Harry fell into it, emotionally exhausted, eyes puffy. He needed to get this over with. Tell someone the thoughts that had been plaguing his mind for two years now.

 “He-- He _touched_ me, Hermione,” Harry finally conceded, crying raggedly into her shirt.

 

 “You mean...” agony flashing on her face. Her lips thinned into a line, despair dancing on every crease. She felt her grip on reality spin, loosen, and shatter beneath her fingertips.

 

 “Yes, please don’t make me say it,” He half-whispered into her shoulder, glasses about to fall off. Harry barely noticed Ron as he yanked suddenly while stroking his hair, beginning to wrench and sob again, red hot tears and wails probably falling uncared for in the doldrum of the sky.

 

 “He wouldn’t let me take off my boots while he-- He was smiling and, and his hands I-- I hated them… The icecream I got after, I threw it all up--”

 

Harry couldn’t speak anymore, tears wetting the back of Hermione’s shirt. He tightened his hands around her. Everything burned, his face, his head, his chest, his throat, his _thoughts_ . Everything brought him back that day, when Uncle Vernon saw vomit on his backwards shirt and didn’t say anything, and Harry couldn’t wait to get home so he could take off the shoes that the man adored so much but made his skin and everything else about him feel _dirty, disgusting,_ **_horrible_ ** , and when he _left_ the house, curled up in the back seat, the man waving and smiling as they drove away like nothing had even happened--

 

Harry was glad, getting comforted in the grass with the people he loved so much, that he ran from that place and never looked back.

 

  But he wasn’t glad it happened in the first place.


	12. Kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You did what you thought was right…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When writing this chapter and the ones that follow, I didn't spit them up. It was really just a bunch of inspiration driven segments of what would happen next. And to make up for me not writing in the past few days, I'm actually posting every 4 days now to make up for the lack of content. So, I apologize for this chapter being a bit short, the next segment was too long, and these were too long to fit onto the last chapter. On another note, I wrote this thinking like, "How will my main characters react to shit?", and I came to this conclusion. I think the title fits pretty well. Hope you enjoy, comments and Kudos are welcome.

  


  “Do you know where the Dursleys, live?” Ron asked while his father drove him home that day. 

  


 That was the only thing he had uttered since he entered the car. Arthur had noticed the boy’s eyes were hallow red, and he looked furiated at something. When Arthur asked about it before, Ron said nothing, staring at him with empty eyes. In fact, in that later days, Ron had been saying less and less about his visits at home, less and less in general. Sometimes people prodded, sometimes they didn’t, but all the same, the boy never gave any answers, and minimal interaction. It frightened Arthur.

  


  “I...Yes. But why--”

  


 “Take me there,” he demanded, and from the front view mirror Arthur saw the boy’s face as horribly pale, stone solid, hair frazzled more than usual. Arthur, feeling remorse for whatever ailed his son, just wished to make Ron happy. If that meant driving or apparating to Wales every other day and then going to Muggle Britain for him, he would do it, as long as it repaired their relationship after whatever had happened. 

  


 So, he did.

  


 Arthur was not exactly sure what the boy was doing though, as it was almost late, and Ron never had the desire to meet his friend’s horrible aunt and uncle before. Nevermind how much of a bad idea this was for many reasons. Regardless, Arthur and his son stood at the door next to the immaculate lawn of 4 Privet Drive, the prior staring around him at the muggle innovations, waiting for an answer as he tentatively rang the odd muggle contraption, a doorbell. Remembering past experiences here, Arthur was glad he hadn’t brought his cloak with him. 

  


 The door opened, and a walrus-looking man answered, face scrunched up in a scowl. He glared a bit at Arthur, then peered down at Ron, who was holding his hand more tightly now, Arthur noticed. 

  


“We don’t want what you’re selling.” He announced with vigor, about to close the door. Ron put his hand on it, stopping its velocity before the door could go further, simultaneously letting go of Arthur’s hand.

  


 “Oh, you’ll want this,” he grit his teeth, before swinging the door open, jumping up and punching the man square in the jaw.

  


 “Ron!” 

  


 Arthur was in shock, as was Vernon, falling back and letting out a cut-off yelp. As he recovered, Ron didn’t stop punching and shouting things at the man, hitting any skin he could find. Of course it was not extremely effective, as he was a young boy, and he was was fighting a losing battle. 

  


 Arthur, recovering from his shock, pulled his son off the man. Ron attempted to hold on by the man’s polo.

  


 “Dad, let me go! Bloody tosser! Child Beater! Fucking--”

  


“Ron!” He shouted, louder this time. He finally got the boy off the man’s shirt, holding him close to his chest. 

  


 “Why you--!” Vernon shouted, but Arthur didn’t hear the rest of it, as he slammed the door in the man’s face and ran as fast as he could with Ron in his arms in the direction whence they came.

  


 He just about threw the boy in the backseat, jammed the key in the starter, and sped out of Little Whinging as quickly as the car would take him. A few miles off on an abandoned road, when his heart was not beating out of his chest, Arthur parked, then got himself and Ron out of the car. 

  


 “Bloody… Ronald Weasley, what was that?” he almost shouted, hysterical. The child stood in front of him, head down, gazing at the gravel of the road. He did not answer for several seconds, and Arthur, a bit temperamental, tapped his foot, wondering impatiently if he were to ever get a reply. He then saw tear drops fall from the boy’s face and onto the gravel in the early dusk light. 

  


 Arthur’s whole demeanor changed.

 “Oh Ronnie…”

  


 He scooped his son up in his arms, stroking the red hair as he started to hear choked cries and sniffles. The boy wrapped his lanky arms around the man’s neck. 

  


“I d-did it because,” Ron started through his sniffs, “he, the-- the tosser, they hurt H-Harry and I couldn’t just…” The child broke off, snuggling his head more so into the man’s shirt. 

  


  “I know… It’s okay, oh, Ron, it’s okay. You did what you thought was right…” Arthur assured the boy, holding him snug against his chest. 

  


 “You did what you thought was right…”

  
  


  * -



  


  Now, Hermione could not have just left Harry after he had finally revealed to them what happened those some years ago. He was very emotionally vulnerable after, and she was afraid he might do something or have another nightmare while either her or Ron were not around. 

  


  So, as soon as Ron left for the night, moving out from the pile they created on the now wet and dead grass and giving a strong hug and kiss on the forehead, Hermione had wrote to her parents with the pager they had given to her after finding out about her ‘walks’, told them she was staying at a friend’s place, then turned it off before they could retaliate. 

  


 She ushered an emotionally broken boy into the ranch house, grabbing the quilt from the bed, dragging it on the rough floor into the other room, and draped it on him as he sat on the floor, staring into space. His glasses were bent, Hermione noted. 

  


 He had been quiet ever since he broke down in sobs on her shoulders, not doing or saying much. Hermione felt for him, she did dearly. It almost brought her to tears how lackluster her manner of endearing could be, especially since Harry needed her and all she could provide was these frustrating practical ways of comfort, these odd and inbetween things that had no visible impact on his mood. She just wished there was some way she could feel all the pain and anguish for him, to see his face star-gazed and happy instead of haunted. 

  


 “Remember what we said Harry,” she advised him. “None of what happened, not a bit, was your fault. And-- and, oh bugger, they were horrible people, they truly were, all of them. I...” 

  


  She noticed he was crying again, tears silently shimmering down his cheeks. She felt as if cotton was stuck down her throat; she wished she could cry, too. Instead, Hermione sat down, wrapped her hands around the person she had known for centuries, and hummed him to sleep. They would find a way to deal with the pain together. Tomorrow. 


	13. Roughneck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, he had no obligation of listening to Moody’s shouts of “Constant Vigilance!” to keep an eye on their behavior. That was his job as a teacher even.
> 
>  
> 
> But this did not mean he wanted to.
> 
> -  
>  Snape greeted Petunia at the door, Polyjuice Potion’s slimy taste still fresh in his mouth, casserole in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, in the last chapter I wrote Hermione calling her parents with a phone. I stared at the paragraph a whole 30 seconds before I realized that this is the 1980's and cell phones were only huge blocks that the wealthy had. I literally went on a whole tirade of looking up beepers and finding out most people actually call them pagers. Huh. Anywayyyy. Most wouldn't call fanfiction high art, but the segments with Snape that I wrote here and two chapters from now... well I'm damn proud of them. Thank you for reading, sorry for the lack of Harry in this chapter!

**_“What do you mean, endorsement?”_ **

_ “Well, the man said if we left the freak with him for a couple of hours--” _

__

    What did this memory have to do with Potter? If it was the last thing he did, he would find out. 

 

      But, at this point of time, him doing anything that had to do with the boy was like a waiting game. Only this time, Snape waited for his death wish. 

 

  Sure, he had been waiting before, but this was prior to Snape discovering the location of Harry Potter, and even partially acknowledged in his mind that the boy existed to ignore how he felt about it.

 

Snape greeted Petunia at the door, Polyjuice Potion’s slimy taste still fresh in his mouth, casserole in hand. 

 

 But now, it was impossible to ignore. In another year and a half, the boy would walk through those doors, Lily Potter’s eyes amazed at the scenery, no shoes on, like before. He would stare at Snape, James Potter’s wicked sneer burning intently in his direction. Snape knew these events would happen, and was almost overcome with anguish at waiting for them. He, in turn, started to despise the boy and the constant turmoil he put Snape in.

 

 Vernon Dursley peered at Snape through his squinty eyes, a suspicious look to rival Moody’s upon it. Snape grinned, flashing teeth, setting the casserole down on the table he sat, hoping his smile was not a grimace and he did not set it down too hard.  

 

  And it was not as if her could ignore Potter while he is at Hogwarts, either. Besides his own priorities about protecting him, Moody had stopped Snape outside the hallway after the Order meeting, wanting a favor.

 

_  “...now I don’t know what’s wrong with Potter or Weasley’s son, hell if I knew. Something’s off though, bout those two, and I need won’t be here to investigate. You need to see to it…” _

 

__ They sat at the table, Petunia ‘indulging’ him in gossip, the pig-like boy eating his way through the casserole like a, in short, pig, and Vernon attempting especially hard to impress Snape with his promotion at whatever job he worked. Snape pointedly ignored staring at the cupboard to the left of them.

 

__ Honestly, after this convoluted chain of events Snape was forced into, everyone and their dead aunt would be able to tell that everything that surrounded Potter was, in short, odd. Not even including his apparent friendship with Weasley’s son and the girl who broke into the Hogwarts window. Yes, he had no obligation of listening to Moody’s shouts of  _ “Constant Vigilance!”  _ to keep an eye on their behavior. That was his job as a teacher even. 

 

 But this did not mean he wanted to.

 

 Finally, he did what he had forced himself after more than a year to enter this house for, asking them the question he knew they would answer truthfully from the Veritaserum in the casserole. It was good his morals were a bit loose, or illegally giving muggles truth serum for his own agenda might have taken a blow to his conscious. Snape thought back on the snap-shots of memories he had seen, and ceased his faux grin. Shuffling discreetly in his pocket, he turned on his muggle recording device. 

 

  Yes, he did not want to take care of this blasted child and his equally odd friends who ripped a hurricane through his life since his birth. He did not want to be entitled to help save the child of a girl that he had honestly not had a conversation with years prior to her death, be stricken with guilt at her mention, be tied down with the promise of  _ always _ . He reminded himself that he  _ didn’t  _ want to, bitterly and almost completely not acknowledging that he came to this horrible house on his own accord, forcing himself to stare at the people who might’ve changed his mindset if he was not so damn stubborn to believe what he wanted to, and always was going to, believe. 

 

 “You are being recorded. Did you hurt Harry Potter in any way?” 

 

 He asked in the middle of their I’m-implying-i’m-better-than-you rant, already knowing the answer. The couple and their pig had shock and confusion written on their faces, Mrs. Dursley’s eye twitching unconsciously. And of course,  _ Duddkin’s _ peered up with food smudged all over his face at the standoff of adults right before the turnout, confused at why it was quiet all of a sudden. 

 

“Wha--”

 “Y-Yes,” Ms.Dursley forcefully uttered, hands going up to her face to clamp her mouth shut almost milliseconds afterward. Snape’s face and tendons felt tight, as if a pressure was attempting to pull them apart. He made a noise between a grunt and a hum. 

 

 He knew he could not ask them any overly vague questions, such as  _ How?  _ They could weedle themselves out of that one and maybe continue speaking for hours, which he didn’t have. He halted his mind from imagining what they  _ would _ be speaking about for hours on end with deadly accuracy. Snape also understood oddly specific questions would not be a good idea. Picking what he should ask was like going up for a coin toss, so much so that he now wished he had  documented what he had wanted to question prior to coming, but he knew himself after ages of planning he had just forced himself to be here anyway. Why did the thought of that leave more guilt than it did just seconds earlier?

 

 Vernon stared at his wife with something akin to horror, appearing how Snape would imagine a person would look after accidental fatally stabbing themselves. Snape was no master at extended metaphors, but he imagined if comparing this situation to that, Snape would be the one pushing the knife that was in the man’s hands, already gleaming with envy, poisonous, deadly sharp, waiting to lead him to his destruction anyway. 

 

 “What are you?” Petunia questioned, speech muffled through her cupped hands. The glare of anger, confusion, and fear which was looking every which way did all the talking for her though. 

 

 “I’m with Dumbledore.”

 

 He honestly could have phrased or conveyed what he revealed many different ways, or just plain out stated that he was a wizard. Although contextually, he knew in his mind that saying it like that would make her and her husband visibly pale the most, giving Snape some sort of grim satisfaction. 

 

 And it did, as the woman suddenly gripping her child’s shoulder, glancing half a second at the cupboard in which, Snape noted as another sick metaphor, held all their dirty laundry. Her child, Dudley, finally cluing in on the tension of the situation, showed a sudden fear in his eyes that was only a bit less equivalent to his parents’. Snape continued.

 

 “Did you hate Harry Potter?”

 

 “Of bloody course.” The boy. “I did.” The woman. “Yes.” The man. 

 

 The adults appeared as if their mouths were betraying them, except the boy, who didn’t seem to understand the phrase ‘human decency’ and spoke without reservations. Snape took one cold look at the pair who raised him across the table, and sniffed.

 

   Vernon’s face then turned tomato red, purplish veins pulsating as if they were to burst out of his skull. The anger is his squinty eyes looked like a nuclear blast waiting to happen. Snape was not surprised at the shout of anger that followed.  

 

 “ _ You fu _ \--!”

 

 So unsurprised in fact, he had his wand up in preparation to stop him from speaking, seconds prior to the man even uttering a word. Snape didn’t even have to go as far as cast a spell. As soon as Vernon saw him wave the threatening object, most of which his kind would consider a lowly stick, the man abruptly cut off speaking. His face grew pale suddenly, most likely breaking into a cold sweat from the way he rubbed at the tight collar of his polo shirt. And Snape was rather glad the man stopped so fast too. If Vernon even mentioned in the playback that this interrogation was being held against his will, Snape would, without a doubt, have a tremendously harder time handing this off to the muggle police as _ freely given _ third party evidence.

 

 But then, of course, like the idiot he is, the walrus mustached man spoke again. 

 

 “Y-you wouldn’t _ d-dare _ ,” he almost gasped out, utter fear and hesitance evident in his voice. Snape was not sure who he was afraid for more, his family or, the more viable option, himself. 

 

  He then stared at him coldly, signature sneer burning and smoldering through to the family across the table, even past the Polyjuice’s facsimile. Snape pointed his wand directly at Vernon. 

 

 “Try me.”


	14. Starcloud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gasped and jolted out of his sleep, body aching from having sprawled out on the threadbare, splintered floor.  
> _
> 
> Harry had never had a dream, not even a daydream, like that one before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh guys, more than 2000 hits! I'm even surprised I got 1! Thank you so much for reading this. Hope your having a great day. Anyway, sorry that the pacing hasnt been that fast but it'll speed up (cough, cough next chapter) For now, Harry's in this one!

_A crash_

 

  _He felt as if he were about to fall off the edge of the world, on the precipice of collapsing and falling freely into an endless abyss. No this was fact, he would fall, it was imminent. Death was imminent, it stood behind him, gaze cold upon his back. Life was imminent, it stood nowhere, or wherever he looked down to. Suffering, joy even was imminent. It all would happen, within or without him, yet his choice on falling was his own. Not that it mattered, not that it didn’t, but without a doubt, at one point in time, the choice to go on would be his own. But, as he felt the itch of coldness and anguish on the back of his soon-to-be eyelids, and a pull at his front, was it ever really? Or was it Death’s?_

 

_He was falling anyway._

 

_A crash._

 

_“No, not Harry…!”_

 

_There was green nothingness, a pocket in space and time, a broken soul leeching on the etches of his brain, and a calling leading him to where he met his own demises. He knew where it was, the bittersweet stench of Death, and something different, but the same. It was the thump of another’s heartbeat, of another’s death rattle, longing to lead him to where the soul met there’s, longing to be fulfilled, longing to be--_

 

 Harry gasped and jolted out of his sleep, body aching from having sprawled out on the threadbare, splintered floor. He felt a tightness in his chest that he knew was foreboding of something, shivers wracking down his spine, coils of ebony hair plastered onto the side of his face, and drool drying in the creases of his mouth. Sitting there tense, without seeing, Harry looked out of the window in front of him, breathing deep breathes, attempting to recombobulate himself.

 

  Then, only slightly more grounded than before, he got on his hands and knees to get up from the floor and begin the new day. Recollecting on the dream gave him an odd sort of melancholy, and unconscious fear. Harry had never had a dream, not even a daydream, like that one before.

 

 He then walked to the sink in the musty kitchen, turned on the water, and scrubbed his face thoroughly with the current. There was a chill that accompanied the foreboding in his chest he realized, one that could not be warmed up even with the heated and swiftly cooling water dripping down his face, down his hair, and pooling at his chin. What was this dream? He felt somewhere deep down he knew what all these events and things were but none of them grounded or made sense in his reality. It was all abstracted, all frigid, all foreboding, all _wrong_.

 

 Almost how had he felt about the memories he had, Harry mused.

 

 Harry then heaved a sigh deep within his chest as an attempt to rid it of the frigid cold. It didn’t work. He then decided to skip his bath for the day, and watch the sun rise high in the sky and the bugs slowly eat away at dewey grass seeds as he waited for his two most important people to pass the barrier again and make him a bit less lonely and a bit less scarred.

 

 How long had it been since he told them the true reason why he left the Dursley’s? A year maybe? Hermione always mentioned that she would give him a calendar since he quite rebelliously forgot what day of the week it was, although she never did. Not that it mattered anyway. Harry’s eyes squinted up at the sun almost completing its daily rise over the horizon and spreading its orange meringue light, wind blowing a bit more than usual. Time, night and day, winter, summer, spring and fall: it needed no order, it always passed the same.

 

 And with time, things had gotten better, he thought. At least a little bit. The day after they cried and laid in the dead grass all that time ago, he felt dissociated from everything around him, like watching his life go by in a film, every heave of his breath slow and labored and filled with lead emotion. Every single wisp of air that exited his mouth felt as if it whispered trial, sorrow and burden. He was not sure how long he sat there, or when he woke, or how long Hermione had been talking to him, her hand on his shoulder, or when Ron had gotten there too, sour look in his eye, somehow accompanied with the aura of wariness and triumph.

 

 He did not know how long it took for reality to finally truly begin to fade and melt within his mind, probably hours after the fact. He could not stare down at his feet for longer than several seconds without feeling nausea and shame burn in his throat. He did not know when he got outside, air suddenly finding his lungs after what felt like decades of compression, both Ron and Hermione with their arms underneath his armpits, simply walking him across the field and into the grass. Everything still had a waxy film on it, a translucent barrier separating himself from actuality, he noted.

 

 And so _, them_ , if that was _them_ in front of him, he wasn’t so sure where he truly was; was he dutifully picking out the weeds in Aunt Petunia’s garden? He hoped so, or there wouldn’t be much food for him that week…

 

 And so _them,_ if they were for some reason here with him wherever he was, spoke and spoke and spoke. All of it had an emotion, a consistency, a feeling and an air, even though the words could barely be understood through the film. Sometimes they made him feel elated, most of the time claustrophobic, as if he was trapped, he was _trapped_ with baseball cards and boots and _Greene_ and in the man’s house again…

 

 But then in his panic, they held him, and he knew that this was reality. Where the sweet smell of sweat and worry was all he could feel raditating of the other’s bodies, and that was fine. They spoke and talked again after that, and only then did the words finally resonate within his mind.

 

_We’ll fix this Harry… No one will hurt you again, Harry… We love you, Harry…_

 

  They had apologetic tones, made dozens of promises, and had serious faces on-- no tears. It would all be fine, they convinced him. They would stay by his side and make sure of it, they promised.

 

  Finally, not really sure if it was all at once or a gradual experience, after a long time of staring at himself through a foggy glass, Harry saw everything clear, how the stars pierced the nighttime with their cold and unforgiving light, and how the endless velvet of the sky still only barely hid the clouds of the daytime away. With a deep cold breath, finally Harry could truly _breathe._

 

Things weren’t really perfect after that day, but they had gotten better, he was sure of it. He never had any more spells of derealization where he lost touch with his sense of self after that day. And he could catalogue and look back on the memories that brought him to that state. He only looked back on the Dursley’s era of his life with pain, fear,  and a lack of understanding, but at the very least, he could now do so. And in turn, attempt to move forward.

 

    Sometime after that, when Ron and Hermione go home and leave him in the nighttime, Harry would go back to his farmhouse, wrap his khopesh in his blanket and hold it tightly, and stare into space thinking of nothing and everything for hours at a time, not realizing he had fallen asleep doing it until he woke up on the floor the next morning. This would sometimes be accompanied with him unconsciously scratching at his feet until they bleed, leaving purple bruises the morning after which uncomfortableness only made him want to scratch at them more. He did these things often, never really sure why. It made him feel lost.

 

 The night before was no exception. Sometimes when he woke, screams died on his lips from endless nightmares. A lot of times he didn’t dream. Less frequently, although it had been getting better in the latter months from Hermione and Ron talking to him and forcing him not to recede into himself, he had fanciful dreams and memories play in his mind before he woke.

 

But then today happened. Whatever abstract thing he just had dreamt, whether it be a nightmare, a memory, or something else, was an outlier from the routine. He truly was lost, and that scared him.

 

   So he knew, like all things that were like this, he would have to ask Ron and Hermione about it.

  
  
  
  
  



	15. Balmoral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were so set to despise a 6 year old boy that they beat him, battered him, and brainwashed their son into doing the same. That thought both irked and unsettled him. 
> 
>  
> 
> And, at the same time, almost made him think of himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the moment of me posting this it is 12:00am Tuesday, July 31st! You know exactly what that means, and if you don't, well I honestly don't know why you're here. Jk ;) Sorry I'm horrible human being who couldn't help but make that pun. Happy Birthday Harry Potter, you're not even in this chapter! Although, honestly, looking back on this chapter there's a lot of parrallels to when Hagrid met the Dursleys. Please don't let that deter you from reading. But regardless, thanks for reading this far everyone!

He had already asked the majority of the bombshell questions he could think of:

 

  _Why were you abusive of Harry Potter?_

 

He was a freak, his father’s side was a load of freaks, and Petunia’s sister was a freak that married into them.

 

  _Where did Harry Potter sleep while he was in your guardianship?_

 

The dusty cupboard under the stairs.

 

  _Was Harry Potter ever isolated by you without food or water for prolonged amounts of time? How long was the longest?_

 

Yes, the longest being a week and a half.

 

  _Was Harry Potter ever forced to do labor for you for hours at a time?_

 

Yes.

 

  _Did you taunt, scorn, or emotionally abuse Harry Potter?_

 

Yes.

 

 It was like shooting himself in the head with that muggle contraption while having another revolver in his left hand, shooting at the family in front of them. Snape knew he needed the truth, he knew he needed evidence so these horrible people can go away for a very long time and he could level out the guilt searing into the pit of stomach, but Merlin, these people broke his resolve. He always had to ask for the specifics of a question, and the specifics were always more terrible than the last. They were so set to despise a 6 year old boy that they beat him, battered him, and brainwashed their son into doing the same. That thought both irked and unsettled him.

 

   And, at the same time, almost made him think of himself.

 

 It was the late afternoon, the sun shone through the window panes at a very favorable angle, yet the room still felt frigid and reflected the pale waxiness of its inhabitants. The woman, Snape could barely call her by her name now, was crying. Actively crying as if she were the one who had dealt through actual pain and humiliation. The boy was stricken with fear after awhile, not moving an inch in his chair, as pale and sickly as Snape had ever seen a pig. And the man was about the same, only appearing as if he were about to have a stroke, the areas around his very visible veins purple, red, and strained.

 

 Snape was about ready to turn off the recording device, ask about the odd part of the wench’s memories, then leave and never turn back. But then he realized, leaning up from his chair suddenly, that he forgot a question he could ask that was in line with the muggle laws of what child abuse was. Another horrible question. He almost didn’t want to, the rest of his suspicions about Potter’s treatment in the house for the most part being correct. He did not want to hear anymore from these people. An _Avada Kedavra_ would be too quick for them. He wished honestly to make them repent, brutally murder them then burn their house down, and afterwards vomit for sharing the same air with them.

 

 Snape swallowed and attempted to keep up his resolve. He knew he at least had to do this. For the sake of Lil-- no.

For the sake of Harry.

 

 “Did you do anything of sexual intent to Harry Potter’s person?”

 

 The Dursley’s, the bloody horrible and vain threesome of insensitive pricks, were finally silent after a question. They looked confused, actually, the boy more so. And then something dawned on the man and the woman, and they spoke, shock driving their mouths more than truth potion.

 

 “No! Of course not, you take me for some pedo or so--”  “Why would I even touch the freak? I have no reason to--”

 

  “Enough!” Snape shouted above their rants. He did not see how these the couple even had enough morals to be shocked at his assumptions anymore. He could not see how they took it to heart not to harm a child like that, yet did so in every other way possible.

 

  He tried to breathe out, relax after finally finishing with these people, not having the answer be yes and then have to ask explicitly. It didn’t work. Besides, he still had one question left. Snape reached into the pocket of his pants, scuffled a bit for the button, saved the set, then turned off the recording device. He wasn’t sure if he should have it on for this.

 

 With a sigh, he got up from his chair and stared down at the family. There was a crook in his neck and a horrible feeling he couldn’t place rising in his stomach. Foreboding? Contempt? Greif? Guilt? It was most likely all of them.

 

 “Sometime prior you,” he pointed to Vernon, keeping his words concise, “spoke to your wife about sending Potter to a man’s house for _endorsement._ ” He stressed the word, its syllables feeling like hot turpentine on his mouth.

 

 “Who was this man and how do you know him?”

 

 Snape truly did not know why that segment of the woman’s memories resonated so deeply in his mind. But for some odd reason, he was unsettled about it. Unsettled enough for this to be one of the main reasons he was here. For one, they had sent the boy away to other people’s houses before, he had learned. Although, this was mostly Ms. Figg, the squib working for the Order, and in that situation money or an endorsement would be given the _other_ way around if at all. Lastly, less evidential but more damning to Snape: out of all the horrible memories she had of the boy, why did this one pop into the woman’s head as most important when referring to Harry Potter?

 

 The man spoke first.

 

 “Anderson Greene was his name. Work colleague, got put off for an unclear police record 6 months after the fact or summat. Wanted the boy for yard work.” The words appeared stubbornly forced out of his mouth in the beginning, although as soon as if small brain realized the questions were not convicting him anymore, the man’s tongue loosened a bit.

 

  The woman’s lips were tight, arms wrapped just as tight around her still incredibly pale son. Her eyes darted to the door, then back to Snape. The door, then back to Snape. He could tell she wanted him to simply leave as soon as possible. Snape wanted to force himself to stay longer just to spite her.

 

  Snape’s eyebrow raised. He understood the muggle police system well enough now to know police records were a suspicious thing.

 

 “Greene’s police record was not clear, what for?”

 

 The man shrugged his large mass of shoulders, not appearing as if he was hiding away any truth. But the woman, as soon as he asked, was different. Her face was suddenly turning red, hands fidgeting, eyes darting back in forth again in panic. Whatever was being forced out was attempting to stay hidden tooth and nail.

 

 “Discharged child sex offender,” she finally blurted out.

 A jolt, a shock, a pain, and an electrocution went through Snape’s body simultaneously.

 

 “You left the child with _a what.”_ Suddenly the cupboard under the stairs burst into flames.

 

 The young boy yelped at the sudden flames, falling off his chair.

 

  The man was up in a heartbeat from the shock, grabbing the nearest carpet and beating down the roaring fire awkwardly through the small door. While, Snape stared pointedly at the woman, her complexion in a cold sweat, shaking as he glared right between her eyes in anger. He grabbed for the button on the recording device, although his hands were shaking fist. When the woman repeat it due to the Veritaserum, Snape could only see her lips moving into those damning words due to the roaring in his ears. _Harry left because he was--_

 

Snape had pieced it all together, a horrifying picture he never wanted to see.

 

 “When did Harry go to Greene’s house?” He forced himself to ask.

 

    The woman did not blink, fear evident in her eyes. Tears dripped down her face, trembling. _She knew._

 

  “June 2nd, Monday morning.”

 

 “When did Harry disappear from your house?”

 

 There she went again from across the table, the insufferable _bitch_ not speaking, convulsing and red with the truth, the truth they all knew. But Snape needed to hear her say it. He slammed his hands onto the table.

 

  “When did Har--!”

 

 “June 2nd, Monday night!” She gasped out, hands catching her as she fell onto the table in tears. She was sobbing as if she had the right to sob.

 

 There were a million thoughts, a million regrets running through Snape’s head at that point, yet a grim affirmation rung about his head. _She knew she knew_ **_she knew she bloody knew and did not do a single thing--_ **

 

The man turned around from the ashes and smoke of the dead fire to gaze in shock at his wife. What a picture it painted, kettle calling pot, a self inflicted stab wound, a loaded gun in each their hands cascading bullet holes at point blank range.

 

 And none of that fucking mattered, because Snape was **_seething._ **

 

****   _Why would you--!”_

 

“It was Lily okay!” she cried in hysterics, “Fucking perfect ‘ittle Lily just had to go whoring around with a-- with a _freak_ and get her up the duff then leave me with the fucking child! Why in hell, _bloody hell_ should I not hate him? It’s _his_ fault, he killed her! The _freak_ and that fucking freak _deadbeat_ father of his--”

 

 “A child--!”

 

 “He bloody _deserved_ what he got!” She banged her fist on the table, voice breaking and hoarse.

 

 Snape gawked.

 

It was almost like looking at his past self in the mirror. In some alternate reality, one where he was so overcome with spite for his circumstance just like this woman was, he might have agreed. He might have fallen into his dark thoughts that James Potter had ruined his life, and his child by association, by surviving. But the woman, screaming hypocritically about how _unfair_ it all was had finally made him see the light.  

 

No one, not even his worst enemy, and especially not a child that did nothing but _live_ , deserved this kind of hatred. Not in a million years.

 

  Snape stared at her a bit more, straightening up. He turned off the recording device for the final time that day. He was done.

 

 “Because of third-party doctrine, you’re going to go to jail for an egregious amount of time. Your child will be taken away from you. I don’t pity you. On the contrary, I hate you,” he spoke, tone as even as possible, gliding to the door. The woman sank to the floor, grabbed hold of her child which was gripping tightly to the table’s right leg, and pitifully howled.

 

 The man still stared at the scene in utter shock, his paralysis making the carpet hang limply then fall from his hand. But then Snape gripped the doorknob and realized another question he had missed. Another question he urgently yet tentatively wished to know the answer of. Snape breathed, turned back around.

 

“Why does Harry refuse to wear shoes?”

 

 The woman sniffled at him, looking up confusedly. The man stood in shock. The boy simply kept hugging his table leg in turmoil. No one spoke, no one denied, no one convicted themselves, no one repented.

 

  After a couple more seconds of silence, Snape turned back around and walked out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just need to say it. Man I loved writing this one! That almost sounds terrible honestly but its true. Snape's character ark going that way isnt even what I planned, but it just came out that way when i saw how much Snape in the books relates to Petunia but how much they hated each other. Again, thank you so much for reading, although I only answer some comments, I read every single one and every single one is endearing to me. Just as long as someone feels something when reading this, I'm happy. Have a great day!


	16. Refined Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six thoughts pass through Sirius’ mind during the entirety of the front page news.

Sirius Black had only one reason not to go anywhere. 

 

 Regret. 

 

 He sat with his back against the perpetually frigid, scathing, and cold cinder blocks that made up the walls of his prison cell, his cage. Staring at the wall, rehearsing what he had known for years and years and years and almost convinced himself of. 

 

 _I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it_ ** _I didn’t do it_** **_itwasthebloodyfuckingRat!_**

 

**** It was one of those times where his mind was screaming, his muscles tense and straining, gasping for breath and filled with anger. The manic rage coarsed throughout his body, reflected the scraggliness of his hair, tortured every single nerve, and made him terribly afraid. The dementors were watching.  _ Always _ watching. And they would bring the _ regret _ with them.

 

 Yet, in these several seconds, he hadn’t even blinked in the corner of his cell. 

 

 The anger did not hold him back though. The rage was always the mediator for escape plans. And compassion, as faint as the thing was, created them.

 

   At his best, Sirius lived in reverie. He remembered the little group at Hogwarts James and the other’s had created from the ground up, the innocence, apathy, and rebellion of childhood. He remembered Lily and her refusals, her strong will, her teases. He remembered little Harry, an oddly intelligent boy at 1, loving the first birthday gift his Uncle Sirius had got him, zooming past all of them on his broomstick. If he got out of here,  _ when  _ he got out of here, he would make it up to Harry, his godson would be going to Hogwarts soon, he would--

 

 Then he lived in the could-have-beens. And that was where the regret came in. 

 

 Did he even deserve to get out of here? The dementors closed in on him, frigidly sucking in the desolation, his fear. They always did.

 

  His friends, did they really die by Pettigrew’s hands, or  _ his _ ? He did not act rationally, he trusted the  _ rat, _ he did not do the right thing, he didn’t do what was best for James, his body unnaturally splayed on the floor of the sitting room, for Lily, her crimson hair looking as flat and passionless as her empty eyes, _ for Harry-- _

 

__ He never should have left Harry. It was his own fault he was in this cage, constant spray of icy sea water matting and greasing his hair, dementors sucking at the emptiness in his chest, making him relive the horrible and gory memories that flashed between his eyes like a photo-reel.  He saw their cold faces everywhere he looked around the room, shades forming and disappearing twice as fast,  _ they hate him they hate him they _ **_hate_ ** _ him  _ **_Harry hates him--_ **

 

Involuntarily, Sirius shivered. He was losing his mind again. He needed to turn into his Animagus form before he--

 

 “....yes, yes,  _ terrible!  _ Quite terrible what those vampires do these days. If only I had the power to...”

 

 Sirus’s head jerked up. He almost bloody forgot. It was inspection day, an event that had rarely occured at all during his duration at Azkaban. And Fudge would come. The man sometimes came with a newspaper. 

 

  Sirius scurried to the edge of his cell, not in the slightest far from where he was originally. He waited until Fudge did what he did usually, look down in disgust at him, recite some practiced contempt filled phrase. Then he would turn around and look on to the back of him, and when Sirius saw the rolled up piece of newspaper, he snatched through the bars of his cell. 

 

 The man always spoke again with contempt and a hint of fear, neither of them caring enough to even register whatever was coming out of his mouth. This time Sirius saw the front page of the article and sucked in a breath. 

 

**BOY-WHO-LIVED FOUND?**

 

Found,  _ Found?  _ Had he ever been  _ missing?  _ Sirius’s heart was beating out of his chest. He knew he should not have trusted Lily’s sister with the child. If only he had been  _ there-- _

 

 There had been a lull in the information he had been getting in the past 2 years for reasons Sirius had no knowledge of, but now the reason was glaring him in the face. They tightened up security, at least a little bit, because his godson--  or as some called him, savior of the wizarding world and whatever nonsense, had gone--

 

   He read the newspaper with fervor. 

 

_ As the most with magic know by now if you have not been living underneath the club of a troll, Harry James Potter, the boy which survived the killing curse, conquered Who-Know-Who, and ended the Wizarding War on the very same night of Halloween 1981, had gone missing from the non-disclosed location of his Aunt and Uncle’s house in 1986. After being disclosed this information by the Department of Magical Law enforcement, many on the community have been mourning the loss of our golden boy, wondering truly where he might have gone. With little to no press releases from Aurors, theories and leaked information is what many have to go by for the location of The-Boy-Who’s-Missing. Some believe he was kidnapped by Death Eaters, while others assume he is valiantly fighting them off for our honor. Although, this statement from the trustable source of Mundungus Fletcher, an apparent close confidant with Albus Dumbledore and the Aurors, turns all these theories on their head: _

 

_  “Yeah we found the boy alright,” he says rather sorrowfully, emotion filling his eyes, “But he was in this big ward we can’t get into with Weasley’s youngest son, making a mess of us.” _

 

_     Weasley’s youngest son referring to the youngest son of Arthur Weasley, Ronald Weasley, who’s picture we have provided. (Male, 2nd last to the left)  _

 

_  Regardless, this is a huge leap in what we know. The-Boy-Who-lived has been found! But is fighting off the authority of the wizarding world. From our informant, we can assume he is incredibly powerful and has kept another hostage in his barrier. This is obvious suspicious behavior. Is the Harry Potter truly the savior of the light, or actually another Dark Lord, attempting to overthrow the government? Was he pushed out fearfully from his aunt and uncle’s house, or did he leave to start another Wizarding War?   _

_  Either way, one thing is for sure. After the long-suffering of our community, we have The-Boy-Who-Lived back.  _

 

__   Six thoughts pass through Sirius’ mind during the entirety of the front page news. 

 

 One, what a load of fucking rubbish newspapers are today.

 Two, holy fuck, Harry’s both been missing, presumably found, and not at all safe either way for the past  _ 4 years _ .

 Three, who the hell let sell-out scum like Mundungus Fletcher be a confidant of anything.

 Four, His godson is bloody amazing if he can evade authority that well. 

 Five, oh Merlin Weasley’s son better be a good friend to my--

  And six, which cut off the thought process of thought five with a vigor as soon as he looked a bit more intently at the picture of the Weasley family. On the shoulder of one of the older freckled faces, one almost indistinguishable from the last, was a rat. An old, ragged rat. But not just any rat. 

 

  A rat that was missing an index finger.

 The nerves in Sirius’ body were on edge again. Unconsciously, the print paper crumbled at the force of his hands.He vibrated with voracious energy, staring straight at the bars of his cell. 

 

 _I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it_ ** _I didn’t do it_** **_itwasthebloodyfuckingRatHe’swithWeasleyHe’swithWeasleyHe’swithWeasley--_**

 

Fuck his regret.

If it was the last thing Sirius would do, he would escape, blow that rat to smithereens, and protect his godson. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me when I say I just figured out where I was going when making this chapter.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome, thank you so much for more than 3000 hits, almost 200 hundred kudos, and a whole lotta love.
> 
> Also, Harry's gonna go to Hogwarts soon! Just a hint at whats to come!


	17. Short Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the magical people again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can i just apologize profusely for not updating on time? School started, then my mom's birthday yesterday, and i just didnt have time. I know its a one day difference, but i got keep my promises to you guys! But please note it will probably be a lot harder for me to do so now with so much in my schedule. Love you all so so much, thank you for reading.

Humming. Lyrical and dynamic, it flowed through Harry’s lips like melted honey on a spoon, and he wasn’t really sure why. Today felt like a better day than most. He did not dream, but felt well rested, he washed the cloak and his undergarments- them being the only clothes he had and always getting incredibly dirty- he sat criss-cross on the dining table in the sitting room (simply because he could) to eat a breakfast of leftovers from Hermione, and he let a happy memory from a past life he barely remembered play out in his mind over and over until the rose tint curled around in his mind like the weathered sides of a photograph. He wished he could frame every single moment as it went back in forth in his reverie...

  


  _He loved expressionist art, what a new and impossible thing, how Voltaire-ic, how Cezanne-like, how eccentric!_

 

_He slashed upright with gold and red with his paintbrush, spilling a bit on the dorm room floor. Awh hell, he would clean it up later, it not as if anyone important would come by--_

 

_The door of his dorm room opened._

 

_“Thomas, you look half mad,” Darius exclaimed, opening the door a bit wider for Ansley to enter. He was always the straightforward one, the bookish one, the hesitant the one that said no no stop that or we’ll be caught and sent to prison or worse expelled--_

 

_Thomas walked up to Darius and kissed him on the cheek, only realizing their was paint on his chapped lips until a blue splatter appeared on his lover’s face._

 

_He smiled a cheeky grin. “Aren’t we all.”_

 

_Darius blushed while Ansley walked closer into the epicenter of mess Thomas had created, staring at the large easel intently. He had acquired art supplies from a merchant, picked it up as one of his newest hobbies to express the odd and faint pictures that always seemed to play though his mind. Darius always disapproved of his sudden gaining of and dropping of avocations, said it ostracized him, made the three of them more recognizable as an oddity, and by gosh how many pence do you have to waste on the posh and obscene!_

 

_Ansley was always more supportive, more rough, more do first, ask questions later. Like an unstoppable blade. That was most likely why she was one of the few woman in this college institution, besides her somehow questionable intellect. She was fierce. And he loved her for that. So Thomas was confused to see her face so hesitant and perturbed at the sight of whatever he had painted._

 

_“How… peculiar.”_

 

_She had the tips of her fingers pressed against the still-wet paint of the canvas, the cyans and greens and crimsons and golds of its entirety. For the first time since beginning, Thomas actually looked at whatever he had painted up from the odd vision that passed through his mind._

 

_There were three shapes in front that appeared to be people. Or maybe objects. He wasn’t quite sure. One was painted in a darkish green, the vibrancy of it almost snubbed out by the red of other object, not fierce, but curved like a tendrel of fire wrapping around itself. And then lastly, the third object in the middle, splattered with blue, ferocious and murky like the ocean of a vicious storm. The background was golden with a wavy mess of ebony mixed within it, appearing smeared and drippy. Something about the painting made his heart stutter. And from the way Darius paused in front of the canvas, his did as well._

 

_Then, quite suddenly, as if in a trance, Ansley drew a line straight through the canvas with her finger, smearing the inky black and blue with it. Darius then, uncertain of himself but in the same trance-like state, drew a circle around the line, picking up more gold than black. Thomas then moved forward, visions crossing his mind too fast to accurately be seen, feeling as if he could see into the far-reaches of his soul, drew a triangle outside of that with his index finger, smearing all the color of the canvas together in a display of murkiness and contrast. It made his breath stutter. He stared at his beloved knowing exactly what they were thinking._

 

_What was this?_

 

_But then Darius burst out laughing. Laughing at the absurdity of it all, bubbly and vibrant and airy and afraid. And then Ansley was giggling, chuckling then picking up a glob of greenish paint from the tray and flinging it at Thomas with vigor. That released the cloudiness in his eyes, and suddenly he forgot what all the nonsense was about and sputtered as he went to throw some paint back to Ansley, and in turn Darius got in the way and suddenly they were a big mess of colors splayed onto each other, in a tangle of legs on the floor, one big masterpiece of expressionist art as the abstract art lay forgotten and they chortled themselves to tears._

 

_Darius recovered first. Smiling fondly at the equally messy pair._

 

_“We are an illustrious, acclaimed, covenanted disaster,” he announced. Yellow globs stuck strands of hair to his forehead. Ansley snickered._

 

_Thomas smiled a cheeky grin into the nape of her neck._

 

_“In the terms of artistic experimentation, I was thinking more Laurence Sterne.”_

 

 Harry smiled fondly for the umpteenth time that day. Laughter, rebellion, and somewhat witty, somewhat pretentious banter is mostly what he remembered from that time period. He remembered only faintly of being Thomas, who Ron claimed was the anomalous scholar from 1894 who appeared to be invisible in a crowd to everyone except people who knew him intimately. He doesn’t recall how he died.

 

  Regardless, Harry was in a great mood, his mind had not centered even a single intrusive thought on the Dursley era, and he felt nothing would bring him out of this trance of serenity. He walked through the tomato plants, feeling the soft, rich, dark soil underneath his feet, and seeing the stocks, light green and hanging lazily from the weight of the fruit. Just as he was about to pick one for a morning snack, quite peculiarly, an owl flew down swiftly onto his arm.

 

 “Why...hello?” He said. He stared confusedly as it perched on him. It was a barn owl, quite out of place in an area where there’s no trees or wild mice for as long as the eye can see. He attempted to shake it off of his arm. The insistent bird simply squaked at him and held out a leg, one which Harry now suddenly realized, had a letter in it. He froze.

 

 It was the magical people again.

 

  With a tentative hand, Harry grasped the letter, feeling the smoothness of the paper between his fingertips. Without a second glance, the owl took flight again.

 

 The letter was addressed to him in an oddly specific tone, quote, ‘ _Harry James Potter, Abandoned Ranch House On The Hill.’_ Inside was two pieces of parchment, paper-sized, both written on with green ink.

 

 Harry read through it, mind spinning and doing catapults as he simply stood there for ages, reading and re-reading its contents.

 

_We are pleased to inform you that…._

 

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and…_

_...an owl OR a cat OR a toad…_

 

“Magic…” he whispered to himself, simply trying to comprehend it. He wasn’t quite sure if his decision of going to the school was going to overwhelm him--

 

 And then something struck him, jolted him, stagnated him, and brought the rose tinted walls of disillusionment crumbling down before him.

 

 “Harry, Harry! I’m back! Did you get the Hogwarts letter, I just got--”

 

 “Ron, who was the man who tried to enter my mind?”

 

   _He saw the unsympathetic context behind his eyelids, a force attempting to breach the memories he never wanted to see again, to vivisect his thoughts, to watch him be in pain and torture for the sole purpose of simply knowing why--_

 

Sure, as long as Harry stayed in the magical world, he could attempt to ignore the Hospital Wing and the woman who runned it. It was one room after all. But if there was one person he could not ignore...

 

 _“_ Oh, that git is one of the teachers. But wh-” Suddenly it dawned on Ron. Harry stared wide-eyed at the letter without really seeing, words blurring together into one contingent mess.

 

The man, the one who was the main reason Harry almost decided never to return to the magical world, was one of the _teachers_.

 

 Harry’s good mood just catapulted off of a cliff.


End file.
